The fire crackles behind you while bottles clink and laughter keeps looping in the same boring circle. Six counselors sit too close to the flames, drunk on cheap confidence and recycled dares, acting like the night is harmless just because it hasn’t bitten them yet. Cards hit the log. Someone groans. Someone cheers.

You’re already checked out.

When you stand, a couple of heads turn. Jacob squints at you through the firelight, grin lazy, bottle hanging from his fingers. Dylan barely looks up, already half-laughing as he waves you off.

“C’mon, man. It’s not that bad.”

You don’t argue. You don’t explain. You just leave.

The path toward the lodge is darker than you expect, the glow of the campfire thinning fast until it’s nothing but a flicker behind the trees. The sounds of the game fade into the woods, replaced by crickets and the dull crunch of your steps on dirt and leaves. The night feels bigger out here. Too open. Too quiet.

You keep walking anyway.

The lodge should be close. You picture the door, the steps, the relief of walls and a bed and sleep swallowing the night whole. Your pace quickens, not because you’re scared, just because you want this to be over.

Then the bushes rustle.

You slow without meaning to. Your body knows before you do. The sound is wrong, heavier than wind, closer than it should be. Branches bend instead of sway. Something shifts its weight.

A growl follows.

It doesn’t sound like an animal you can name. It’s harsher, dragged out, vibrating through the ground and into your chest. It doesn’t warn. It doesn’t bluff. It sounds like a decision being made.

Your breath catches. Your thoughts scatter. You don’t turn back toward the campfire. You don’t scream. You just stand there, heart hammering, already pleading in every way a body can without words.

The darkness ahead feels crowded now.

And whatever is in it has heard you.