The moon hung lower now, pale and heavy over the valley. In the quiet guesthouse about a mile from the twins' vacation cabin, Mr. Collins sat comfortably in an old leather chair, a steaming mug of cocoa in hand. The faint hum of the generator mixed with the soft chirping of crickets outside.
He reached over to adjust the walkie-talkie beside him — the one the twins always used whenever they needed something. The green light blinked faintly, steady and calm.
"Ah, kids," he muttered with a small smile. "They'll call soon enough — probably asking for snacks or that board game again."
He leaned back, staring at the faint glow of his desk lamp. Stacked neatly on the table were a few of the twins' things — their phones, the Wi-Fi router, a laptop, and a few boxes of food supplies. The rest of the group had kept their own devices, switched off as per their "rules," but Michael and Michelle's had been left with him for safekeeping.
Mr. Collins took another slow sip, content. But then, from somewhere outside, a sound — faint, deliberate. A crunch of gravel.
He froze.
The wind had gone still.
He set the mug down quietly and stood up, scanning the dimly lit room. "Hello?"
No answer.
Then came another sound — the soft squeak of a hinge. The back door.
Before he could react, a shadow moved behind him.
A sharp blow struck the back of his head — crack! — and everything went black. The cocoa spilled across the floor as his body slumped forward.
The room fell silent again.
A pair of gloved hands moved swiftly across the table, snatching the phones, the laptop, the food packs, even the walkie-talkie base station. Within seconds, everything was gone — the faint red indicator light dying with a soft click.
Far off at the campfire, the others sat huddled in an uneasy silence.
Michael still hadn't calmed down. He stared at the walkie-talkie on the ground. "It's dead now. No signal at all."
Michelle frowned and grabbed it. "It was working earlier," she said. "Maybe Collins turned his off?"
Cora hugged her knees. "Or maybe it broke when you ran like a maniac."
"Ha-ha," Michael muttered.
Jordan poked at the fire again, eyes distant. "Something's not right," he said quietly. "Collins wouldn't just go silent. He's too careful."
Mia nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "Do you… do you think someone actually followed you?"
Before Michael could answer, a faint light flickered between the trees — a lantern.
"Wait," Michelle said, standing. "Is that him?"
A figure stumbled into view — Mr. Collins, his face pale, blood trailing down the side of his head. He tried to speak, but his voice came out hoarse and broken.
"Run…" he rasped, before collapsing to the ground.
The group froze.
The night that had begun as an adventure had just turned into something else entirely.