Unhallowed

The dying rays of evening bleed across the horizon, leaving behind fleeting kisses as the sun departs until the morrow. In its absence, a vast congregation of trees gathers around us, casting long shadows in their wake-offering a fragile refuge where predator and prey wait in silence.

“Mommy? Are we there yet?”

“Not yet Susan, honey. Hopefully not much longer. Right, Lucas?”

I softly sigh to myself and glance at the clock on the stereo before checking the mirror above it. My daughter is squirming around in the back seat, clearly uncomfortable after sitting in the car for hours—something she’s definitely not used to.

I then glance over at my wife, Mary. Her brows are furrowed in irritation, after being forced to listen to our nine-year-old ask the same question repeatedly for the past hour. She looks at me expectantly, a faint ray of hope in her eyes that this torture wont have to last much longer.

I smile, hoping to lift their spirits.

“Not much longer. My map says we just follow this path coming up riiight here–”

The car makes a slow turn off the pavement and onto a gravel road leading deeper into the woods.

“Now it should only take about five minutes to get there.”

My attempts of cheering them up seems to work. I noticed my daughter perk up in her seat, suddenly paying closer attention to the trees and the nature surrounding us. My wife visibly relaxes, leaning back in her seat and gazing calmly out the window.

I smile to myself, feeling accomplished at keeping everyone’s spirits up. Excitement starts building inside my chest as the cabin we rented finally comes into view.

“Here we are,” I say. “Our home away from home.”

I barely had time to park the car before my daughter was already fighting with her seatbelt to get out of the vehicle.

“I wanna go pick out my room!”

Mary and I could only chuckle. Mary steps out to help Susan from her seat before moving to the trunk to grab the bags, while I went ahead to unlock the cabin and take a quick look around, making sure everything’s in order.

Once I’m satisfied, I head back outside to help carry things in.

It isn’t a big place—just an old, beat up cabin with two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a small kitchen that opens into a living area. Candles line the walls as a backup in case the power goes out, since there’s no generator. To be honest, the place rarely gets rented out. You can tell by the lack of maintenance and the overall worn state it’s been kept in.

But the rent was cheap.

And it beats sitting through another Minnesota winter freezing our asses off.

“Good news!” I call out “No squatters. It’s a woodstove, though, so I’ll have to go out and see if I can find a woodshed.”

Susan immediately starts bouncing on the balls of her feet, barely able to contain her excitement.

“Oh! Oh! Can I go with you? Please?!”

I smile and rub my chin thoughtfully.

“Well… I could use an extra set of hands. Someone to hold the lantern while I carry back some lumber… If you think your brave enough-”

“I’m brave enough! I’m nine and a half! I’m all grown up!”

Mary covered her mouth with her hand, trying—and failing— to suppress her laughter. I can’t say I blame her. It’s hard to take our daughter seriously when she’s barely a few feet tall and still has her hair tied up in—

Well, not pigtails anymore. A ponytail now. Apparently that’s the more “grown-up” option.

Who am I to argue?

“Alright then,” I say. “Let’s get our stuff inside and put away, and we’ll head out. Ready to pick out your room?”

“Yeah!”

Susan darts past us and into the cabin, her footsteps echoing loudly on the wooden floor. Mary and I follow behind, letting her claim her room before settling into the other.

I put my things away quickly while Mary takes her time unpacking.

Not long after I finish, Susan comes racing out into the hallway, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Ready!”

Mary gives us both a quick hug before we head out. I grab the lantern by the door, strike the match, and watch the small flame bloom to life behind the glass before handing it to Susan.

Outside, the woods feel darker than they did before.

Susan doesn’t seem to notice.

Hand in hand, we step off the porch and start towards the trees.

_________

I helped Susan over a fallen log, its body softened into decay, caving faintly beneath our weight. Inside, it had been hollowed clean—emptied by unseen mouths that feed in the dark.

“Nature eats itself,” I murmured, the words slipping out barely above a whisper.

“That’s gross.”

“It’s honest.”

She glanced back at the sagging shape behind us.

“Do we get eaten too?”

“Eventually.”

The answer settled too heavily.

She stopped walking.

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

I turned toward her and held out my hand again. For a moment she hesitated, before taking my hand within her own. I smile.

“Everything becomes something else,” I said, softer now. “The trees sink into the soil. The soil drifts into air… and the air finds its way back into lungs that won’t remember it.”

Susan slowed, then stopped again.

“Then what am I going to be?” She asked.

I tilted my head, pondering.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

My fingers closed a little tighter around hers.

“On how well you listen.”

“To the trees?…”

“To the silence between them,” I said, “where something is always waiting to be heard.”

_________

We walked in silence after that. Her face tightened in confusion before settling into a fragile focus, her eyes fixed on the dim path ahead. The trail flickered in and out of existence beneath the trembling lantern clutched in my daughter’s hands, its flame shivering with every step. Determination hardened her gaze, a thin mask stretched carefully over the fear lurking behind it, as we ventured deeper into the woods where the darkness seemed to breathe.

It wasn’t long until we found the shed, luckily it came equipped with an old axe, aged by time. My daughter settled off to the side with the lantern while I set to chopping wood. The dull rhythm of metal biting into timber rang throughout the trees, each strike swallowed by a silence so deep it seemed to listen back. The echoes wandered into the dark and vanished.

Then a twig snapped.

The sound jerked my daughter’s attention towards the woods, though I hadn’t noticed it yet. I raised the axe again, unaware, until the faintest sound of soft footsteps crept through the darkness. My swing faltered midair, and I slowly turned toward the noise.

My daughter whispered the words as if she were afraid it might hear her if the sound left her lips too loudly.

“…a deer.”

I swallowed and stared into the trees at what she meant. At first, all I could see was a dark silhouette—four thin legs, the branching crown of antlers. It should have been a deer. It looked like a deer.

But it was watching us.

I couldn’t pull my eyes away from its own. In the lantern’s trembling light they burned strangely, yellow and orange swirling in the reflection like small, restless flames. The creature stood perfectly still. No breath fogged the cold air. No muscle shifted beneath its shadowed shape.

And without realizing it, neither did I.

We stared at one another, frozen—two strangers caught in the gaze of something neither of us understood.

Then my daughter gasped.

The lantern slipped from her shaking hands.

And the woods swallowed us whole.

“Daddy!?”

In an instant, I’m snapped back to reality. The deer bolts into the darkness, the sudden crash of its retreat sending my daughter recoiling in fright.

The wind begins to rise, stirring the trees until they groan and sway above us. Branches scrape against one another, whispering through the woods like something restless moving just beyond sight.

I scramble through the dirt, frantic, until my hand finally finds the handle of my axe. I then rush to my daughter, pulling her close as she trembles within my arms. I murmur to her that everything is all right—even though my words feel thin within the heavy dark.

I pick up the lantern and coax the flame back to life. Its weak glow spills across the ground as I gather a few pieces of wood before taking my daughter’s hand in mine and making our way back to the cabin.

_______

Once we returned, Mary stood in the kitchen, whistling—a tune both melodic and strangely foreign. She stopped the instant she heard us. Turning from the stove, a smile ghosted across her pale lips, only to wither into a frown. Her brows knit together, shadowed with quiet concern.

“You two alright? You seem… shaken.” Her voice was soft, edged with worry. She stepped closer, lifting Susan’s face in her hands, studying her as though searching for something hidden beneath the skin. I spoke quickly, cutting through the silence.

“We’re alright, Mary. Just startled by a deer—got the adrenaline pumping, that’s all.”

Her gaze lingered on me, then drifted back to Susan. Susan gave a small, reassuring nod. Mary exhaled, the tension slipping from her shoulders, and turned back to the stove.

“Well… I’m glad to hear it. Hopefully you’ve worked up an appetite. Dinner’s ready.”

Susan smiled faintly and took her seat at the table. I followed, setting it as Mary brought the food over. We gathered in our places, serving ourselves in quiet ritual before folding our hands for prayer. I glance over at Susan offering a gentle smile.

“Susan, honey… would you like to say the prayer tonight?”

She nodded eagerly, clearing her throat as she shut her eyes tight. “Dear Lord, we thank you for this day, and our bread. Please bless our food… and my mommy’s hands that made it. Amen!”

A soft chuckle slipped from Mary and I. We echoed “Amen” and reached for our utensils. The meal began in murmurs—small talk about the cabin, the day, the unfamiliar quiet pressing in around us. But as the minutes passed, something shifted. Mary and I exchanged glances as Susan’s eyes grew heavy, her blinks slow and uneven, like someone sinking beneath dark water.

We decided to call it a night.

Mary led Susan away to bed while I remained behind, alone with the remnants of dinner. I gathered my plate, frowning at its unexpected weight, as though it carried more than scraps. I scraped the remains into the trash, then did the same with Mary’s and Susan’s plates—each one just as heavy, just as wrong.

I told myself it was nothing. Nerves, perhaps. A new house. Strange surroundings. The mind plays tricks when it’s unsettled. Still… the thought lingered. I cleaned the kitchen in silence, the faint echo of Mary’s earlier tune clinging to the walls like a memory that refused to fade. When I finished, I made my way down the hall, pausing at Susan’s door. She lay still, already asleep—too still, perhaps—but I pushed the thought aside and moved on.

In our room, Mary was already in bed, her breathing slow and even, her face turned away from the door. I slipped beneath the covers beside her, the mattress sighing softly under my weight.

Sleep took me almost at once—or perhaps something else did.

______

The dark does not fall—it draws closed around me, slow as a final breath I cannot release, like a throat tightening around the world with quiet, deliberate intent—until even silence within me falters and begins to choke. The air thickens in my lungs, dense as damp earth packed into a grave—each breath a fragile trespass, each exhale slipping from me as though reclaimed by something unseen. Something nearer now. It gathers at the edges of me—not hands, not anything so merciful as shape—but a presence vast and patient, leaning into my chest with a weight that does not relent, until my ribs whisper their protest and tremble beneath it. And beneath that pressure—something stirs.

A hollow without origin, coiled deep within my core, quiet at first—but listening. The ache follows. Not sharp, not sudden—but slow… insistent… a faint, creeping burn that rises through me, resting at my throat like an unanswered question. I try to breathe—but the dark has found my rhythm. It moves with me. Through me, before me— drawing in what little air exists and leaving me with absence, with the hollow echo of oxygen that never reaches my blood. My body begins to fold inward, a fragile frame collapsing around something that feels… less and less like me.

And somewhere within this suffocating black, a truth begins to take shape—quiet, certain, inescapable: this is not passing. This is what remains. A dark that does not loosen—only tightens. And deep beneath it— that hollow, no longer silent, no longer still—
Waiting.
Endless.
Patient.
And though I cannot name it yet… it aches— softly now, but with the promise of something that will not leave.

______

My eyes snap open— and I’m already sitting up, a gasp tearing out of me. My heart pounds hard in my chest, loud—too loud— filling my ears until it’s all I can hear. For a moment, I don’t know where I am.
Then slowly— the room returns. Mary is still beside me, asleep, undisturbed, her breathing soft and steady like nothing has happened at all. The window is slightly open, and the night air slips in, cool and restless, pulling the curtain into a slow, drifting dance.

It’s still dark. Too early in the morning. I sit there a while, letting the quiet settle— or trying to. Eventually, I sigh and push myself out of bed. Sleep has already left me. The hallway is dim, washed in thin moonlight, stretching longer than it should as I move through it. The house is quiet. Too quiet. Not the kind you grow used to— but the kind that feels like it’s listening back.

In the kitchen, I start a pot of coffee, something simple, something normal— like it might anchor me here. But then— it comes. That feeling. Subtle at first, then sharper— like something brushing just beneath the surface of my skin. The sense of being watched. I try to ignore it, try to busy my thoughts, but it lingers— an itching, crawling awareness that won’t let go. Before I realize it, I’m staring out the window.

The woods beyond the house stand still and endless, their shapes bending with the wind— swaying just enough to feel almost deliberate. Almost like they know I’m looking. It’s calm out there. Too calm. The kind that doesn’t comfort— only waits. I don’t remember turning away. Don’t remember the coffee finishing. Only that, somehow, the dark gives way. And when I finally notice— it’s morning.

“G’mornin’, honey.”

Mary said, yawning as she made her way into the kitchen. She spotted the full coffee pot and looked over at me, one brow slightly quirked.

“Long night?”

I sighed and looked down at the table, the weight of my tiredness settling in as I spoke.

“You could say that. Not adjusted to the place yet. I had a bit of trouble sleeping.”

Mary nodded in understanding and poured herself—and me—some coffee before pulling a couple of pans from the cabinet.

“Would you like me to make breakfast? I figured I’d make some scrambled eggs for Susan. I’m sure she’ll be up any time.”

I felt my stomach give a soft growl, not loud enough to draw attention. I looked over at Mary and smiled.

“Sure. I’ll just take a fried egg and some toast. Though I’d be surprised if she gets up on her own—she seems to be sleeping like a rock.”

Mary chuckled as she grabbed eggs from the fridge and got to work.

“She did have a long day yesterday. We all did. I’m sure it just took a lot out of her.”

I nodded and settled into my seat, a little more at ease now that I wasn’t alone. I sipped my coffee, though my eyes kept drifting back to the window. The uneasiness from earlier had dulled in the pale wash of morning light, but hadn’t quite left.

Before long, Mary started humming that same tune from yesterday, slipping into a steady rhythm as she moved about the kitchen. I couldn’t place the melody, though something about it felt… familiar. Or maybe just persistent.

Once the cabin filled with the smell of breakfast, it wasn’t long before Susan wandered in. Her usually tidy hair was a mess, proof of a good night’s sleep. I smiled and patted the seat beside me.

“Good morning. You’re right on time—Mom’s just finishing up breakfast.”

Susan beamed and hurried over, sliding into her seat. Her hands tapped excitedly against the table as she watched Mary set the plates in front of us. She clasped them together tightly, muttering a quick thanks before digging in.

Mary and I shared a quiet chuckle before she turned to clean up the kitchen—and then herself—while I picked at my plate, my thoughts drifting.

Maybe stocking up and hiding away out here, in the middle of nowhere, hadn’t been the best way to escape a boring winter.

______

And so the days passed—or at least, something like days. Time softened around the edges, lost its shape. Morning and night bled into one another until the hours felt less like moments and more like a slow, endless stretch of waiting.

I tried to keep us busy.

Fishing at the edge of the lake, where the waves just barely grazed against our feet. Bonfires that cracked too loudly in the still air, their smoke rising straight up as if the sky refused to touch it. Tabletop games played with forced laughter, pieces moving without thought, rules forgotten and remade as we went.

Sometimes, we wandered into the woods.

We never went far.

The trees stood too close together, their branches threading overhead in a way that dulled the light, even at midday. Every step felt borrowed. Every sound—leaves undertow—the snap of a twig—seemed to echo longer than it should have. And always, there was that feeling.

Not fear. Not quite.

Just the quiet certainty that we were not alone.

That something moved with us, just beyond where the eye could settle. Never seen. Never heard. Only felt—like a breath at the back of the neck, like the pause between footsteps that didn’t belong to any of us.

We never spoke of it.

To name it would’ve made it real.

As time wore on, I began to notice changes.

Susan’s appetite, for one. It grew. Where once she picked at her meals, needing coaxing to finish even a few bites, now she ate eagerly—quickly. She began asking for seconds, then thirds, her small frame unchanged despite it. There was something unsettling in the way she ate, though I couldn’t place it. Not hunger exactly, but something close. Something deeper.

Still, I told myself it was a good thing.

At least she was eating.

As for me…

I couldn’t name what was wrong. I was hungry. Constantly. A hollow, gnawing thing that sat deep inside me. But every time I tried to eat, it turned on me—sharp and sudden, like something inside was rejecting it. Tearing at me from within. Each bite felt wrong, like forcing something where it didn’t belong.

And yet, not eating was no better. The hunger only sharpened, stretched thinner, and meaner. I began to feel weaker. My limbs are heavier. My thoughts slower, slipping out of reach the moment I tried to hold onto them. Days blurred together—if they were days at all. It felt like I had been here longer than I should have been. Longer than was possible. Sleep never came properly. When it did, it was shallow, restless—filled with half-formed dreams that slipped away the moment I woke, leaving only the lingering sense that something had been standing nearby, watching me as I lay there.

Mary changed, too.

She began sleeping more, retreating to the bedroom for hours at a time. At first, she said she didn’t feel well. Eventually, she stopped offering reasons at all. She preferred to be alone. Even when she was awake, there was a distance to her—as though part of her remained elsewhere, somewhere just out of reach. When she spoke, her voice felt thinner, quieter, like it had to travel farther to reach me.

But the humming never left her.

If anything, it grew more constant. Soft. Steady. Patient.

I found myself listening for it when it stopped.

So I spent more time with Susan. It felt easier, in a way. Simpler. She stayed close, rarely wandering far, her presence a small, steady thing in the growing strangeness of the cabin.

Still…

Sometimes, when she thought I wasn’t looking, she would go still. Completely still. Head tilted slightly, as if listening to something I couldn’t hear. Something calling from beyond the walls.

Or within them.

______

“All tucked in?”

“Yup!”

“Good. Got your water?”

“Mhm!”

“Alright, get some sleep, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

“Good night, Daddy!”

I closed the door quietly behind me, the soft click of the latch like a whispered promise. My feet moved on their own, carrying me back toward the bedroom where Mary had been resting—or, more accurately, occupying.

The cabin was still, as it always seemed to be now. A quiet that didn’t feel quite right. My breath, soft against the silence, was the loudest thing in the room.

I opened the door to find her, exactly as she had been before, curled on her side of the bed, facing the wall. Her breath rose and fell in the slow, rhythmic dance of sleep—calm, untroubled, and too deep to be real.

I didn’t care.

I walked over to the bed, my weight shifting the mattress beneath me. She stirred slightly, yet remained still. My voice broke the stillness, a hushed whisper in the dark.

“Hi, honey. I know you’re not feeling well… still… so I laid Susan down for bed…”

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. There was no response. Just the quiet rise and fall of her chest, so steady, so unchanged. My gaze lingered on her, watching each movement of her body like it was the last thing tethering her to me, to us.

A sudden ache curled deep inside, something raw that clawed at my chest. I didn’t move. I could feel the sting of tears building behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I couldn’t. I couldn’t afford to.

“Please, Mary…”

The words slipped out, softer this time, like a plea—a prayer to the woman I once knew. But Mary didn’t respond. Her body shifted again, faint, almost imperceptible.

Then—she jolted.

A sharp, sudden breath, like a gasp caught in her throat. My heart stopped. I froze, breath held as the silence stretched, pulling taut like a rope, so tight it hurt. For what felt like an eternity, I held my breath, waiting. Waiting for her to exhale.

But she didn’t.

My chest tightened, a fist clenching around my ribs. The seconds felt like hours, the air in the room thick, suffocating. I exhaled slowly, cautiously, almost as if to avoid disturbing whatever thin thread of reality that held her here with me.

But Mary did not exhale.

Her body was still, utterly still, as though it had forgotten how to breathe at all. I glanced toward the door, toward the empty room where Susan had already drifted into sleep, as if it were a refuge from whatever this was—whatever the hell was going on with us. It felt wrong. The air in the house had grown colder, thicker. I shuddered, the sensation crawling down my spine like fingers made of ice.

And then, for a fleeting second, I heard it.

The faintest sound. A whisper, barely audible, from just beyond the walls.

It was a hum.

That same melody that Mary had been humming for days—no, weeks now. Soft and steady, like the pulse of the house itself, thrumming through the walls, slipping under the floorboards, just out of reach.

I held my breath again.

Then, before I knew it, I was running through the cabin, and into the woods.

______

As I storm into the woods the darkness does not welcome me—it devours me. It surges forward, swallowing me whole in a single, breathless instant, as if I had always belonged to it. The world behind me vanishes without protest. I wander blindly, directionless, my steps erratic, as though something unseen is guiding me deeper, further.

It does not take long before I am lost.

The moon is gone—smothered, erased by the suffocating mass of branches clawing at the sky. No light dares to reach the forest floor. The trees crowd closer, their twisted forms leaning inward, hemming me in, as if conspiring. The darkness is no longer just around me—it presses against my skin, seeps into my lungs, coils behind my eyes.

Then it comes.

A growl splits the silence—but it does not belong to the forest. It festers inside me. Something writhes beneath my ribs, savage and starving, tearing through flesh that offers no resistance. I fold, collapsing in on myself, fingers digging into my stomach as if I could rip the thing free—but it only burrows deeper.

Hunger.

Not a need. Not a passing ache. Something ancient. Something cruel. It chews at me from the inside, patient and relentless, devouring thought, reason, anything that remains of me. Days have passed—too many. Time has decayed into nothing but this gnawing, endless torment.

I choke on a broken groan as I sink to the ground. The earth is damp, cold—soft in a way that feels wrong, like it has already begun to accept me. My body trembles, hollowed out, yet still the thing inside me feeds.

I don’t know what to do.

And in the end, the darkness does not answer—because it never needed to.

______

A scream splits the forest.

It doesn’t die—it multiplies. The sound strikes the trees and comes back warped, thinner, like something is trying to repeat it and failing. It carries too far, too long, threading through the dark until it finds me.

I lift my head.

The hunger inside me loosens its grip, just enough. The pain dulls, retreating into the background as if waiting its turn.

Something sharper takes over.

I move.

Then I’m running.

My legs drive forward, fast and uneven, pushing harder than they should. I don’t see clearly—everything is shadow and movement—but I don’t stumble. Trees slip past me at the last second. Roots rise and fall beneath my feet, but I never catch them. My body knows where to go.

The screaming starts to thin.

I run faster.

It shouldn’t be fading.

I’m getting closer—I have to be. But the sound stretches, breaks apart, slipping away like it’s being dragged somewhere I can’t follow.

For a moment I begin to lose hope.

Then—

The cabin.

Clear as day as I step out into the clearing.

I stagger, nearly falling, breath tearing out of me in ragged bursts. My chest aches. My pulse hammers so loud it drowns everything else.

The screaming is gone. Or buried beneath something else—

Something quieter. I move forward.

The porch creaks under my weight, the wood soft, almost damp. It gives slightly, like it’s been walked on too many times by something that perhaps never left. The sound lingers after I step, hanging in the air.

At the door, I hesitate.

Something inside shifts.

I push open the door.

It gives too easily.

The air inside is wrong. Warm and close, thick enough to taste. There’s a smell underneath it—faintly sweet, faintly rotten—that sticks to the back of my throat. For a moment, there is nothing. Then—

Sobbing.

Soft. Uneven. Too quiet. It doesn’t echo. It doesn’t travel. It just exists, low and close.

I freeze.

The thing inside me shifts, slow and attentive. I move down the hall. Each step feels heavier. The floor dips slightly beneath me, the boards flexing like something underneath is pressing back. The sobbing doesn’t get clearer as I step closer—it dulls, muffled, like it’s being smothered between breaths.

The hallway stretches longer than it should. I reach the last door. Susan’s room. My hand hovers over the knob for a second before my fingers close around it slowly. I open the door. The sobbing stutters. Stops. The silence that follows feels thick.

Full. Waiting.

And what I see inside—almost makes me sick to my stomach.

______

“M-Mary?…” I breathe, the name catching in my throat as my body forgets how to move.

A sharp gasp slips from my wife’s crimson-stained lips as she looks up at me, fear flickering in her eyes.

“Lucas! I-I didn’t hear you come in… I promise, it’s not what it looks like!”

“Not what it looks like?”

She swallowed hard, her eyes wide with panic, then scrambled toward me. She collapsed at my feet, reaching up with hands that shook as they tried to find me. Her expression twisted—fear, perhaps… or excitement… Guilt?

No. Not guilt.

My gaze drifts past her, pulled toward the ruin sprawled across the floor. The once-aged wood, faded with time, now drinks deeply of red. Clothes lie in shredded heaps, scattered like discarded tissues. The mattress, once neat and centered, is now gutted and shoved into the corner. Curtains that once breathed with the wind now hang heavy, stiff—lifeless.

And then—

My gaze falls upon Susan.

Her face is pale as porcelain—delicate, fragile, untouched by warmth. Her lashes rest softly against her cheeks, veiling the brightness that once lived in her eyes. Her hair, once tied and tamed, now spills in wild disarray across the floor. And her small hands, curled inward, have surrendered to the quiet cold the night has given her.

No.

What that Thing has given her.

Mary catches my gaze and turns sharply toward Susan.

A wicked smile blooms across her face as she lowers herself beside the body.

“Oh…” she whispers, almost too softly, almost like a prayer. “I see now. Then let us pray… Dear Lord, please by Your good graces, bless this meal… and the hands that prepared it.”

Instantly, her hands dive forward, parting flesh with a careless familiarity, emerging more ruined than before. I do not move. I cannot. I am left only to witness as she draws back and presents a small, trembling heart. One I once loved.

One I will never stop mourning.

“Here you go, Dear.”

She smiles at me—soft, grotesquely gentle, as though this moment were something sacred.

I only blink.

The smile falters—just a fracture.

“Is something wrong? A-Are you okay-”

Her voice dies as I step closer, slow and deliberate. My hands rise, unsteady, and I come to cradle her face with a tenderness that does not belong there. She leans into me at once—eager, relieved—like something fragile seeking warmth, unaware of the darkness that now stands before her.

In an instant, my hands turn.

Mary’s neck snaps.

Her mouth falls open, a thin, broken sound slipping past her lips—like a final whisper offered to a world already receding. Then she crumples, folding into herself as she collapses beside Susan in a lifeless heap. I do not move. My face remains empty, hollow of feeling, my eyes unblinking as they drink in the room—every ruin, every stain, every shattered moment—preserved in stillness, as though memory itself demands witness.

I take a slow step back, then another, before stumbling down the hall and spilling out the front door. I don’t know what’s overtaking me, only that I need to get the hell away from here. So I trudge into the woods, letting the darkness swallow me once again. It coils around my shoulders, thick and patient, as if welcoming me home.

I wander as far as my legs will carry me. Never looking back. Never daring. Determination is my only ally; pain, my relentless enemy. But pain is cunning, and it wins. I gasp, knees threatening to buckle, as my legs falter beneath me. I lean against a tree, trembling, my chest heaving.

Then it comes—the first pang. Sharp. Twisting. Insistent. It spreads, gnawing at me from the inside, relentless, patient, devouring every fragment of will I have left. My hands clutch my stomach, but there’s nothing to hold onto, only the ache, spreading, claiming.

I can’t move. Can’t force myself forward.

I look back.

And there it is, or perhaps it was never gone at all.

A growl.

Low. Slow. Deliberate.

Mocking. Demanding. Hungry.

It reverberates through the air, through the ground, through me—

As if the darkness itself is laughing at my weakness, and I am already too far gone to escape.

Credit: Abby A.