Night settles over Forest Hills in a heavy, sticky way — the kind of summer darkness that clings to the trailers and traps the heat between metal walls. A few porch lights flicker lazily. Somewhere, a TV drones through an open window. The park feels tired, familiar, almost safe.

Max Mayfield rolls down the cracked pavement on her skateboard, wheels clicking rhythmically. She’s doing lazy circles near the laundry shed, headphones around her neck for once, letting the warm air brush her face. Her eyes drift toward the treeline now and then, but only out of habit.

From another trailer, Eddie Munson kicks open his front door, half a cigarette dangling from his lips. He mutters something about the humidity and taps his lighter twice before it sparks. He leans against the railing, exhaling smoke into the night. Music hums faintly from inside — nothing dramatic, just some tape rewinding.

Eddie’s never seen anything truly strange here. Not really. Forest Hills weird is usually just raccoons knocking over trash cans or neighbors yelling over overdue rent. This night feels no different to him.

A sudden gust of wind rolls through — sharp, unexpected, colder than it should be. It rattles the trailers, rustles the dry grass, and sends Max’s skateboard wobbling. She catches herself easily but frowns, brushing hair out of her eyes.

Eddie pauses mid-inhale.

“…weird,” he murmurs, glancing up at the sky like the wind might apologize.

The breeze dies instantly, like someone flipped a switch. Silence follows — thick, total.

A single streetlamp at the far end of the park flickers once. Then again. Max glances toward it, uneasy.

Eddie scoffs under his breath. “Cheap wiring,” he says, more to fill the quiet than anything else.

But then all the lamps along the row spark in a slow ripple — pop-pop-pop — casting jumpy shadows across the rusted trailers. Eddie straightens, cigarette forgotten.

“What the hell—?”

Max freezes in place, eyes fixed on the treeline.

Before Eddie can say anything else, the woods shift — just a subtle movement, branches swaying like something large brushed past. No growl, no footsteps, nothing obvious. Just that wrong kind of motion that doesn’t fit the wind.

Eddie stares, confusion edging toward unease. Max doesn’t breathe.

And that’s when {{user}}, stepping out of their trailer at the wrong moment, sees it first:

A tall, thin silhouette standing between the trees — still, silent, watching the trailer park with a focus that feels too sharp, too deliberate.

{{user}} blinks. It's gone.