THUD!
Michael hit the ground hard, the air rushing from his lungs.
"Hhh—mmph!" He grunted as his body rolled to a stop against the damp earth.
"F–fuck!!" he spat, clutching his side. But there was no time to dwell on pain. His instincts screamed one command—run.
He stumbled to his feet and bolted, tearing into the darkness of the woods.
What better place to hide from a supernatural killer than the woods… he thought bitterly.
Classic horror movie logic. Perfect.
CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRUNCH.
Each footfall crushed dry leaves beneath his shoes as branches clawed at his arms. The forest loomed around him, endless and suffocating. His breath came in sharp gasps, his vision blurred by fear, his legs jelly beneath him.
He risked a glance over his shoulder—
SHNK!
A glint of silver sliced through the night, a blade hurtling straight for his head.
Without thinking, his body dropped to the side, instinct overriding thought.
THUD!
The knife buried itself into the trunk beside him, quivering inches from his skull.
Michael froze. His heart pounded against his ribs like a hammer.
Shit… when the fuck did he learn to throw?
He scrambled to his feet—his knees buckling, legs wobbling beneath him.
"Fuck—fuck—fuck, come on!" he hissed, forcing his trembling limbs to move.
And then he ran. Faster than he ever had before. If someone had seen him, they might've thought him superhuman. But the only witness was the silent figure standing at the shattered window of the house behind him.
The killer watched. Cold. Unmoving.
Through the frame, the man's masked face was half-lit by the pale moon. Michael's fleeing figure vanished into the dark, swallowed by the woods.
For a moment, the killer stood in stillness. Then he turned slowly—his gaze falling upon the mangled corpse of Jessica sprawled across the floor. He stepped toward the doorway, his boots thudding heavily against the bloodstained boards.
THUD… THUD… THUD… THUD…
Each step echoed down the stairs like a countdown to death.
..............
Michael didn't know how long he'd been running. His lungs burned, yet he wasn't tired. His muscles screamed, yet they didn't fail. Something was wrong, but his mind was too fogged with terror to care.
Through the branches ahead, faint lights flickered in the distance.
Hope.
Light meant people.
People meant safety.
And right now, any stranger was better than being alone with whatever stalked him.
He pressed on, branches whipping his face.
CRUNCH—CRUNCH—CRUNCH.
The sound of his steps mingled with the whispering wind and the occasional creak of distant trees.
Finally, the woods thinned, opening into a small clearing. A playground.
The same one he'd glimpsed from the bathroom window earlier that night.
He slowed to a halt, panting, eyes wide.
A swing creaked softly in the dark.
Someone was sitting on it.
Michael froze. His breath hitched. The air felt colder, heavier. He squinted through the gloom—too dark to make out details, but the shape was unmistakable. A lone figure. Small. Still.
No way someone's just… sitting there.
He stepped back slowly, careful not to snap a twig.
"I'm not falling for this shit," he muttered under his breath.
But as he turned to leave, a thought clawed into his mind—What if the bastard's right behind me?
"Fuck," he whispered, then immediately clamped a hand over his mouth. His pulse hammered in his ears.
The figure on the swing didn't move.
He frowned, lowering his hand, confusion battling fear.
Cautiously, he picked up a long stick from the ground, gripping it like a weapon. Step by step, he approached, the faint metallic creak of the swing the only sound.
"Buddy… you alright?" he called softly. His voice cracked slightly.
No response.
Goosebumps crawled up his neck. His hand trembled as he raised the stick.
With a shaky breath, he snapped his wrist—
WHIP!
The twig struck fabric. Nothing else there was no flinch from the figure or sound.
Michael's stomach turned. Oh shit. Oh shit.
He stepped closer and nudged the figure with the stick.
THUD.
The body slumped forward, falling to the pavement with a soft, lifeless sound.
Michael staggered back, eyes widening in horror.
It was a child.
The boy's pale face stared up at the stars, frozen in terror, eyes wide open. His lips were blue. The faint stench of decay reached Michael's nose.
He stumbled back further, gagging, one hand covering his mouth.
"Fuck this," he rasped—and ran.
Ran from the swing.
From the body.
From the forest.
From everything.
But in the distance, behind him, the swing creaked again.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
As though someone had just sat back down.