As he stepped into the darkness, the pale light of the moon was his only companion, guiding him as he searched for any trace of the mysterious creature. The trail led him to the outdoor toilet. Slowly, he approached the door, gripping his machete tightly, readying himself for whatever might be waiting. He pushed the door open and looked inside. There was nothing. He breathed deeply, a quiet sigh escaping him, a momentary relief settling in his chest.
He turned around—and froze. Standing directly in front of him was a woman in a flowing white dress. Her long black hair hung down, hiding her face, and where her features should have been, there was only a smooth, blank surface. She bowed slowly, continuously, her cold breath brushing against him without pause. The moonlight that had guided him flickered and vanished, leaving him swallowed in blinding darkness.
As he trembled in fear, his reflexes took over. His hand shot up, gripping the machete, and in a swift, desperate swing, he struck at the woman in the white dress. But before the blade could land, she dissolved into a swirl of white smoke, vanishing into the air like mist. Dante's whole body shook uncontrollably, terror coiling around him like a living thing. He forced himself to suppress a scream, keeping it locked deep in his chest, and bolted toward his hut.
But the darkness had grown thick and heavy, swallowing the surroundings. Every step felt uncertain, the familiar path twisted and shifted, and he stumbled, disoriented, unsure of which way led home.
He kept moving forward, every step heavy with fear, until the moonlight fell on him again, sharp and unyielding. Panic rose in his throat, and he wanted to scream, but he knew that in this place, a loud sound would draw more nightcrawlers than he could possibly handle. So he forced himself to remain silent, walking desperately, trying to escape the terror that pressed in from all sides.
But no matter how fast he moved, his hut seemed to drift farther away, retreating as if the ground itself were conspiring against him. The fear clawed higher in his chest, and he broke into a run, panting and trembling, his machete swinging loosely at his side. Then, cutting through the oppressive darkness, a loud, commanding voice rang out—calling his name.
"DANTE!!!… DANTE!!!…"
The voice pierced the darkness, echoing inside his skull. Panic surged through him, and he wanted to scream—but he couldn't. He stumbled forward blindly, senses reeling, until shapes began to take form. His friend appeared, eyes wide with terror, sweat pouring down his forehead.
Dante's mind slowly cleared, though every detail felt wrong—he could barely piece together the forest, the moonlight, the strange smells, the overwhelming fear. The town around him solidified, harsh and real, and he realized he was covered in blood, still clutching his machete. Police officers surrounded him, guns raised, shouting orders that felt both urgent and distant. In the distance, the church rang with the hauntingly angelic voice of a woman singing, sharp and surreal against the chaos.
He turned to his friend, voice trembling, "What… what is happening? I… I don't…"
His friend stepped closer, voice shaking but urgent. "Yesterday, after work at the farm, you weren't feeling well, so I escorted you home early. When we got there… you caught your wife cheating on you. You just stood at the door, and I thought you were in shock. But then… the man ran naked and hid in your toilet. You took your machete. You… killed him. And then… you went back to your wife. I tried calling you, Dante. I tried to stop you—but you didn't hear me. You were… like you were possessed. I couldn't reach you at all. You killed them both and ran into the forest."
Dante's hands trembled violently, gripping the machete as the memory—or was it a nightmare?—rushed back in fragments. His chest heaved. "I… I don't remember… I can't… it's all… a blur…"
"You ran until we found you here, at the church," his friend continued, voice trembling. "You're disoriented, Dante. But you have to turn yourself in. We can fix this. You have to come back from this… before it's too late."
Dante's knees trembled, his body trembling as the words from his friend slowly sank in. The forest, the running, the fear—it all began to melt away, replaced by the harsh clarity of the town. He looked down at his hands. Blood. Warm, sticky, undeniable. His machete still rested in his grip, heavy and real.
The shouts of police, the distant angelic singing from the church, the flashing lights—it all seeped into his mind slowly, painfully, like a weight settling on his chest. Every heartbeat reminded him of what had truly happened, every sound grounding him in a world he had tried to escape.
His friend stepped closer, carefully, slowly, as if approaching something fragile. "Everything will be alright..." Dante's breathing grew shallow, and he tried to release the machete—but his fingers clenched tighter, unwilling to let go.
Then Dante noticed it—just for a moment, his friend's eyes blinked, slow and deliberate, like a reptile's. The strange rhythm sent a chill through him, making his hands tighten around the mache, every muscle coiling, and held his breath.
And then the world seemed to pause, waiting.
End.