It was late—too late for comfort—when you decided to take the shortcut. The forest trail was barely visible under the sickle of moonlight, the dirt path a thin thread between walls of trees that leaned too close, their branches whispering secrets above your head. Every step you took was met with the crunch of leaves and the soft hum of wind weaving through the dark.

At first, it was just the sound of your own footsteps. Then, somewhere behind you, a second rhythm joined in. Light. Barely there. A scrape, a shuffle, then silence.

You stopped. The forest stopped with you.

For a moment, there was nothing—no wind, no crickets, no sound but your breath. Then you turned your head slightly, scanning the spaces between the trees. Only blackness stared back.

You told yourself it was an animal. A deer, maybe. A raccoon. Anything ordinary. You kept walking. But then came the sound again—closer this time—a dragging, deliberate movement, like something low to the ground was following your trail.

When you looked back, the path was empty. Almost.

Something pale flickered between the trees—a flash of movement so fast you could have imagined it. It clung low to the earth, its limbs too long, too thin. Its eyes, hollow and wide, reflected a faint gleam of moonlight.

It didn’t move toward you. It just watched.

You could feel it now—its gaze crawling up your spine like cold fingers. It didn’t breathe. It didn’t blink. You couldn’t even tell if it was alive, or something pretending to be.

Then, without sound, it vanished. One blink, and the spot where it crouched was empty again.

The forest seemed to fold in on itself—sound swallowed, air heavy. You could still feel it, though. Closer now. Somewhere behind you, where the dark pressed hardest.

And when you turned—

Two eyes stared back. Too close. Too human. Too empty.

It didn’t speak. It only watched, head tilted in a jerky, almost curious motion, the pale stretch of its body tensed as if waiting for something—waiting for you to make the first move.