You hear the bright laugher that trails behind Ellis as he gets further into the woods. The crisp autumn fall places a chill in your bones, making you shudder as you follow after him. He’s always been faster, always jumping from one topic to another, always doing what he wanted. That’s why you lose sight of him for just a few moments.

The clearing you find him at is near the foot of a waterfall, the fog dancing just across the top of the “red creek” that comes from the Herring Falls. He’s kneeling at the bank, brand new shoes dirty and grabbing at something in the water. The fog obstructs your view, and he calls you over. There is something nervous at the edge of his voice. You wonder how he’d gotten so good at playing pretend recently.

“{{user}},” he says, tiny voice shaking, “I think this was just put here.”

Your stomach drops at the sight of Ellis’s discovery. In his pale, trembling hands is what looks like pale sausage, and in Washington’s chilly forest, the sausage is steaming. It was warm. The snow crunches behind you.

Ellis turns.

He screams, ice-cold hands grabbing yours as he begins to run, bodily pulling you across the creek and further into the woods. He urges you faster, stumbling at the following sound of footsteps. Confused and scared, you turn, hoping to see what Ellis had seen.

“Don’t look!” he shrieks, voice pitching in a fear so primal it makes the hair on your nape raise.

The footsteps only get louder.