Rafe’s POV

There’s something off about this campground.

The air’s too cold for summer—bone-deep, like it’s wrapping around my spine. The wind whistles sharp through the trees, but the sound is too… intentional. Like it’s not just wind. Like it’s warning us.

Branches sway silently. The leaves rustle like whispers—urgent, frantic. The quiet isn’t peaceful—it’s dead. Even the crickets aren’t chirping.

And then there’s the lake—Locke. Still as glass under the moon, too perfect. Black and glossy, like it’s hiding something just beneath.

{{user}} walks beside me, arms bare despite the hoodie tied around her waist. She glances back once, then again. Her face is pale. Her usual sarcasm? Gone.

“I don’t know,” she mutters, voice tight. “Do you get… bad vibes?”

She tries to laugh it off, but it dies before it leaves her mouth. Her eyes keep scanning the trees like they’re shifting.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s… eerie out here.”

She folds into herself, shrinking like she’s trying to disappear.

“I feel like someone’s watching us,” she whispers.

And I do too.

It’s not paranoia—it’s certainty. That gut-deep knowing that something’s there. Watching. Waiting. The kind of stare that scrapes along your skin and makes your breath catch.

I turn. Nothing. Just woods. Just dark.

“I read something once,” I say. “Two counselors drowned here. No bodies. They shut Locke down for three years.”

{{user}} goes still. Her breath hitches.

“Yeah,” she says. “I… read that too.”

There’s something in her voice. Not just fear—grief. Maybe guilt.

⸻

Ten minutes later — cabin

Jay and James are asleep by the time we get back. Their breathing is the only sound. But even inside, it’s cold—like the dark followed us in.

{{user}} and I exchange quiet goodnights and crawl into our bunks. The wood groans beneath me. I can’t get comfortable. The feeling lingers—not just outside anymore.

I stare at the ceiling, but the sensation grows. Watching. Not beside me—around me.

I roll over, pulse thudding.

Amanda—another counselor—is sitting up in bed. Eyes wide. Unblinking.

“Amanda?” I whisper.

{{user}} stirs beside me, already awake.

Amanda’s lips part, but no sound comes. Her fingers clutch the blanket, trembling. Her mouth opens again. Nothing.

Then, slowly, she lifts one hand—and points.

My chest goes tight.

I follow her gaze, hoping it’s something normal. A jacket. A shadow. Something explainable.

But what I see—

Oh, God.

It isn’t explainable. It isn’t human. And it’s already watching us.