CARL
He is running.
Trees slam past him, thick branches tearing at his clothes. His lungs burn. His legs scream. Somewhere behind him... the beast.
He doesn't look back. He can't. Only one thought: survive.
A clearing. He stumbles in, gasping, muscles shaking. How long has he been running? No idea. He yells. Anyone. Help.
Water splashes nearby. The world holds its breath.
Then the air changes. Low growl. Cold terror was crawling up his spine. He freezes.
It's there. Towering. Teeth glinting in the dark, shadow moving. Before he can think—it lunges towards him.
---
CARL
I wake up in a bed of my own cold sweat, gasping for air as though I've been deprived of it for the longest time. I'm a mess—my head hurts, my body aches, my brain threatening to exit my skull, as though it hadnt sign up for the terrors haunting my nights for the past few weeks.
To be fair, it didn't.
I rub my face and stare at the alarm clock by my bed: 7:45 a.m. At least I'm not going to be late for the first day of sophomore year.
I take a shower, brush my teeth, and spend the next twenty minutes curling my scattered hair. People say how lucky I am to have naturally curly hair, and I smile and thank them—but little do they know the stress it takes each morning to make sure it doesn't end up looking like a mop that's been used, and then used again, like fifty times.
The mirror reflects a dark-haired, hazel-eyed, warm-skinned version of me, freckles sprinkled across my cheeks, a pimple or two, and subtle dark circles under my eyes-physical reminder of the stress my own imagination is causing me when I venture into the land of dreams.
Or nightmares really.
I throw on a simple white shirt, my trusty dark hoodie, and jeans. I grab my father's antique watch from my dresser and head downstairs.
The warm smell of pancakes fills the kitchen. My mom's back faces me as she cooks. My little brother Nico is already at the counter, playing on his iPad. Mum probably helped him get dressed. His hair isn't curly like mine, and he inherited Mum's dark eyes. I ruffle his hair.
"Morning, Mum." I greet her, taking a seat on the counter. She turns, surprised. "Carl, you're ready," she says, sounding genuinely shocked, then places a plate of pancakes in front of me. Her brown hair cascades over her shoulders in curls.
"Well, what can I say? New year, new me." I grin and bite into a pancake. She's got every right to sound shocked, usually my mornings are chaos filled with me rushing to do everything yet somehow getting nothing done. Hey maybe I'll swap my alarm for a daily dose of fresh night terrors to ensure I wake up early in the morning.
I hear a continuous spurting sound and turn to see Nico dumping layer upon layer of maple syrup on his pancakes.
"You wanna take it down a notch?" I tease. Nico stares at me with those wide, ten-year-old eyes like he couldn't quite get why I was interrupting him, and then goes back to piling syrup.
Kids.
The TV cuts to the familiar breaking news tone.
"The body of 18-year-old Aaron Bryson has just been found deep inside the Ashford western woods," the reporter says, and the air leaves my lungs.
My mum gasps, covering her mouth. She's in her work uniform—a blue button-up shirt with the company badge, Stains Telecom and Co, and blue pants. I finish my pancakes and gulp some OJ.
I glance at my mum, then back at the TV. The reporter continues, "The victim was reportedly at a friend's party before heading to college and was last seen leaving alone in the dead of night..."
"Okay, Mum, I'm going to be late." I grab my backpack from the dining chair and head to the door.
"Wait, Carl..." My mother calls, worry written across her face. She raises a brow.
"I've got the night shift at swiftly's." Came my response.
"Be careful ok."
"Why? cause there's like, a psycho killer on the loose?" I grin at her but she doesn't seem to dig the sarcasm.
"Don't worry, Mum. I'll be fine." I reassure. She heaves a sigh then turns her attention towards Nico who continues to drown his pancakes with syrup. As though he feels her looming presence he looks up at her and flashes a toothy grin. My mum then pulls the bottle away from him. He doesn't even try to hit her with those eyes cause he knows they don't work on her.
"No more syrup for you." The last thing I hear before I leave the house.
---
The fog that blankets Ashford since mid-summer hasn't lifted. Somehow, I enjoy the scene it creates. Located at the heart of West Virginia, Ashford sits in the foggy spillover from the Appalachian Mountains. But this year, the fog feels different.
I think of the nightmares from the past two weeks—me running from a beastly apparition. Normally, I love spooky stuff. Like I hardly get scared even when watching the most sadistic horror films. But when I do, it's like the best feeling ever. I'm not really sure if that's really normal either but I don't care.
I love being scared.
But this fear is different.
It's not a malevolent spirit that shows you your worst fear before it devours you-that form of 'scary' exists only within the confines of a screen and does me no real harm, aside a few bursts of adrenaline here and there.
This haunts me. Follows me into my waking life.
I glance at my father's watch. Over thirty minutes until school. Maybe I could take a little detour.
---
The breeze whips past my face as the sun rises over the misty mountains. My breath freezes as light hits the fog, reflecting off the creek nearby. The unease gripping me eases a little. I'm at the top of a hill, a short walk away from Caston Rock... a popular make-out spot for horny teens.
I drink in the pure, unadulterated beauty caused by the early morning sun and nature
I sigh, deciding it's time to leave. I make my way down the hill, then I hear it. Something soft, breaking leaves and twigs—the telltale sign of someone approaching. It stops suddenly. I turn, scanning the red maple and oak trees.
I move faster, then hear my ringtone—Romantic Homicide by D4vd—coming from my backpack.
Sue me.
I pull my backpack down to grab my phone from my back, but then from the corner of my eyes, I see a figure zip between the trees.
I flinch and my bag slips.
Books and paper spilling into the wet grass.
I curse under my breath, scrambling to gather them.
A shift of air behind me makes my senses spike as I bend down to grab a final paper. I feel something comes closer. My stomach drops. My heart pounds.
It's behind me.
I feel sure of what's coming, yet my body refuses to move. I'm rooted to the spot—like a deer frozen in the glare of the very thing destined to end me. The presence draws closer. Closer. Each breath feels thinner than the last...
My phone rings again from my backpack. Snapping me from whatever trance these fog covered woods had placed me under.
I check the caller ID.
Damasen. A friend from school.
Shit—I forgot, the picture thing.
I look around. The presence is gone. I answer.
"Carl! Where the hell are you? You're not going to miss the pic." His voice urgent.
"Yeah, I'll be at school soon... something came up."
"Well get your slow ass over here. They're already handing out locker keys."
"Yeah, I'll be there." I hang up and cast a final glance around.
'Its fine Carl. All in your head.' I try to convince myself as I make my way out of the woods. Although the haunting feeling follows me out and I can't shake off the feeling of being watched.