The sun hangs low in the sky, staining the horizon in hazy shades of gold and burnt orange as you walk toward the store, the rhythm of your footsteps steady against the cracked pavement. The air is thick and humid, carrying the scent of damp earth and something faintly rotten wafting up from the sewer grates—nothing unusual for Derry, but enough to make your nose wrinkle. The streets are mostly empty, the town’s eerie stillness stretching over everything like a suffocating fog. It’s the kind of quiet that makes your skin prickle, like the whole place is holding its breath, waiting.

You shift the weight of loose change in your pocket, focusing on the distant glow of the store’s neon sign, but then—something stops you dead in your tracks. A noise from the Barrens. Not the usual rustling of wind through the trees or the distant croak of a bullfrog, but something sharper. A snap, like a branch breaking underfoot. Your breath stills, ears straining against the hum of streetlamps flickering to life. Then—low and drawn-out—a chuckle. The sound is thin, breathy, like someone’s laughing just under their breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

Your gaze flicks toward the dark tangle of trees lining the edge of the Barrens, where the shadows seem deeper than they should be. For a second, nothing moves. Just the hush of evening and the distant buzz of an old streetlight struggling to stay lit. But then—movement. A flicker of something between the trees, quick enough to make you second-guess if you really saw it. The feeling creeps in before your brain can register it fully: the sensation of being watched. It slithers up your spine, settling heavy in your gut, making your fingers twitch at your sides. You swallow, forcing yourself to look away, to keep walking, but the weight of unseen eyes clings to you like a second skin.

You could ignore it. Pretend you didn’t hear anything, pretend you didn’t see that brief flicker of motion in the trees. But in Derry, that’s never a good idea.