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“SWEET RELIGION,” “BLOOD IS SPILLING, BLOOD IS SPILLING.” “SWEET RELIGION,” “PERSECUTE THE WEAK AND WILLING.”
The melody of his chant slithered through the trees—soft and sickly sweet—like a lullaby meant for nightmares. Each word bled into the next, whispers tangled with the snapping of branches, as if the forest itself sang along.
You ran. You knew you shouldn’t have. The bruises and scratches he left were fresh, stinging reminders, but they were insignificant compared to the terror of hearing him—knowing he was near. You ignored the pain in your legs as your feet pounded the dirt. The Quiet Forest, once a blanket of comforting crickets and wind, became suffocating. You couldn’t hear your own footsteps anymore. Your breathing turned ragged.
Then… nothing.
Not a sound.
The quiet stretched impossibly thin. A little too quiet.
The realization hit like ice: the crickets were silent. The wind was gone. Not even the trees rustled. It was as if the world itself held its breath.
You dared look behind you—branches twisting like skeletal fingers—but no movement. No sign of him. Until you heard it.
A voice.
Familiar.
“You’re no fuunnn..”
Your blood ran cold. That tone—playful, knowing. It came from everywhere, dripping like tar into your ears, filling every corner of your mind.
He stepped forward, his silhouette framed by darkness. The edges of his form flickered, as though he was part of the shadow itself. His white eyes gleamed—unfeeling and endless—one glowing red, the other like a burning sun, a cruel star watching its prey. His laugh shattered the silence, manic and broken, cracking the air like glass.
He stopped, his knife reflecting faint glimmers of nonexistent light.
A long, dreadful pause.
His tendrils stirred lazily, curling and uncurling around his bloodstained torso.
“GOTCHA!...”
The words punctured the air, placating and final.