by Kadrolsha Ona Carole
The deeper Mara went, the quieter the world became. No insects. No birds. Even her footsteps seemed swallowed by the mossy ground. She kept calling her brother’s name, but the sound felt muffled, as if the trees absorbed it.
Then she noticed something wrong.
Every trunk she passed had deep gouges, long and parallel, as if something with enormous claws had scraped its way along the path. The marks were fresh—sap still glistening.
A low whisper drifted between the branches.
Not wind. Not human. Something else.
The Cabin That Shouldn’t Be There
After an hour of walking, Mara saw a faint glow ahead. A cabin stood in a clearing, its windows flickering with candlelight. But she knew this place. She had camped here as a child. The cabin had burned down years ago.
Yet here it was—whole, warm, inviting.
Her brother’s jacket hung on the porch railing.
Mara’s breath caught. She rushed forward, grabbed the jacket, and froze. It was warm, as if someone had just taken it off.
Inside, the cabin smelled of pine and damp earth. A single candle burned on the table. And beside it lay her brother’s notebook, open to a page scrawled in frantic handwriting:
It follows sound. Don’t speak. Don’t run. Don’t look at its face.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
The Thing in the Doorway
Mara turned slowly.
A tall, crooked silhouette filled the doorway. Its limbs were too long, its joints bending the wrong way. Its head tilted, listening. She clamped a hand over her mouth, remembering the warning.
The creature stepped closer, its movements jerky, as if learning how to walk. It sniffed the air. Searching.
Her heart hammered so loudly she feared it would hear that instead.
Then the candle flickered—and went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
A rasping breath brushed the back of her neck.
The Escape
Mara bolted. She didn’t think—she just ran into the night, branches whipping her face. Behind her, the creature shrieked, a sound like metal tearing. The forest erupted with movement as it crashed after her.
She saw the road ahead. Safety. Light.
But as she reached the treeline, she heard a voice.
Her brother’s voice.
“Mara… wait.”
She skidded to a stop. He stood just inside the shadows, pale, trembling, eyes wide with terror.
“Don’t go,” he whispered. “It’s still behind you.”
She turned.
Nothing was there.
When she looked back, her brother was gone.
Only the whispering trees remained.
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