Arthur heard them again.
Not at night.
Not when the wind howled, or the shadows stretched long like fingers trying to touch his fire. Not when the stars blinked like dying eyes in the sky.
This time, they came in broad daylight.
If you could call it that.
The sun didn't shine here. Not really. It glowed — thinly, distantly, like someone had hung a dull lightbulb behind layers of gauze. It was illumination without warmth. Directionless. A world cast in the grey between moments.
Still, it was lighter than night. And in this place, that was something.
Arthur froze mid-step, one foot hovering above a patch of moss, breath caught in his throat.
Crunch.
Crunch.
The sound was soft. Purposeful. Deliberate. Like someone walking with the express intention not to be heard — and failing just enough to be terrifying.
He turned his head slowly, body rigid. The forest behind him stood in perfect silence.
But he knew the trick by now. He wasn't new to this place anymore. The danger didn't hide in the darkness — it waited in the stillness.
Stillness wasn't safety.
Stillness was camouflage.
He rotated in a slow half-circle, eyes scanning between the trees. No movement. No sound.
But he could feel it.
The air was heavy. Heavier than usual. Like the sky itself was leaning down to listen. The leaves above didn't flutter. The branches didn't creak. But the pressure was real — in his temples, in his chest, behind his teeth.
A low thrum just beneath the threshold of sound.
Like the heartbeat of the forest itself.
He clenched his fists and kept moving. Quietly. Cautiously. Not running — not yet — but alert, like prey sensing the predator nearby.
The rope belt around his waist had frayed again. His last attempt at fixing it with twisted vines had held for a day, maybe less. Now it hung askew, the pouches tied to it bumping softly against his hip with each step.
He adjusted it with a sharp tug, more a gesture of habit than utility. These days, he wasn't even sure what was worth carrying. Everything felt temporary. Perishable. Untrustworthy.
Even himself.
The moss beneath his feet had grown thicker, bloated with moisture. It squelched softly as he walked, sucking at his boots like hungry mouths. The sound grated on his nerves. Too loud. Too… inviting.
He didn't remember the moss being this wet yesterday.
But memory was tricky now. Memory had seams.
There were days that folded into themselves like rotten fruit — soft, collapsing, indistinguishable. He would wake sometimes with his hands already dirty, dirt packed under his nails, new bruises on his knees. Had he fallen? Had he been digging?
He didn't know.
Sometimes, he dreamed of movement. Of running. Not away — but toward something.
He dreamed of… chasing.
Today, the voices had started early.
Not screaming. Not howling.
Whispering.
At first, he thought it was the wind.
But there was no wind.
The sky above — still that frozen colorless dome — offered no clouds, no breeze, no birds. The air had been unmoving for days. And yet the voices came. Sliding under his skin like static. Faint, but insistent. A presence more than a sound.
Sometimes they whispered in languages he didn't recognize. Long, wet syllables that dripped like melting wax. Sometimes they murmured in his own voice.
Not memory. Not imagination.
His voice. Saying things he had not said.
"He's right behind you."
"Stop walking. Start running."
"You'll never wake up."
He tried to ignore them. He'd learned that reacting only encouraged them.
But today… the words felt sharper. More distinct. Less like echoes, more like commands.
And worst of all: they made sense.
Crunch. Crunch.
Again.
Closer.
Arthur spun, spear raised — just a sharpened branch fire-hardened at the tip. He clutched it like a drowning man might clutch driftwood: with desperation and no real faith.
Nothing behind him.
Nothing in front.
Just trees. Tall. Silent.
He stared at one for too long. At a knot near its base.
A dark ring in the bark. Circular. Deep.
Had that always been there?
He stepped closer. Peered at it. The knot almost looked like—
No.
He stopped.
It blinked.
He stumbled backward, heart hammering. The tree didn't move. The knot didn't move. But he knew what he saw. He knew it had blinked. Just once. Just enough.
Like it was tired of pretending.
He kept walking. Faster now. Eyes darting.
The forest floor changed.
The moss gave way to a patch of luminous growth — glowing faintly underfoot in a sickly, pale green. Like moonlight trapped in fungus. He stepped lightly through it, holding his breath.
It pulsed faintly beneath his soles. Like it was breathing.
He didn't remember this patch. He'd passed this way before. Or thought he had.
But the forest rearranged itself.
He was sure of that now. Not metaphorically. Not psychologically. Literally.
He would leave a mark — a symbol, a notch, a trail of stones — and come back hours later to find it gone. Or worse: altered.
One time, he returned to a rock he'd etched a spiral into and found three spirals there instead. Intertwined. Complicated. Like something had answered him.
That was the night he'd stopped leaving marks.
He scratched his arm.
Another bite.
Except it didn't itch.
It burned.
He examined it. A clean, straight welt. Raised. Red.
Not random. Not natural.
A symbol.
Two lines. A short curve between them.
His stomach turned.
Someone — something — was writing on him.
He gritted his teeth. He didn't want to scream.
Don't break the silence.
That was the rule. Etched into the tree days ago. He remembered.
He obeyed.
The forest grew brighter. Not lighter. Not safer. Just brighter. The color of the light took on an unnatural hue — sickly, almost blue. Like bioluminescence from a deep-sea creature luring prey.
The trees thinned briefly, revealing a clearing. In its center stood a mound of stones — unnatural in its symmetry.
Arthur approached slowly. Spear raised.
The mound pulsed faintly with heat. Not warm. Not comforting. Alive.
And atop it… a footprint.
Human.
Fresh.
Facing his direction.
Arthur backed away slowly. Every hair on his arms stood on end. The footprint wasn't deep. Whoever made it hadn't been heavy. Or they hadn't been trying to leave a mark.
But they had.
Deliberately.
As if to say:
I'm real.
I'm ahead of you.
He heard a splash.
Not far off.
Water.
He ran — not with panic, but with purpose.
The forest whipped past him, shadows clawing at his periphery, branches reaching like skeletal hands. The sound of water grew louder. A stream.
He burst through a final curtain of vines and came to a halt.
There it was.
A narrow, fast-moving stream cutting through the land like a silver scar. Water gurgled over black stones, impossibly clear, almost inviting.
On the other side: more forest.
But different.
Still.
Unmoving.
Not quiet — waiting.
Arthur crouched by the water, breath ragged. He scooped a handful to drink — paused.
The surface shimmered — reflected.
He saw his face.
Or something that looked like his face.
Too pale. Too angular. Eyes too wide.
Then it smiled.
He flinched back. Fell.
Crawled away on hands and heels.
The reflection was gone.
The water flowed as if nothing had happened.
He didn't try to drink again.
Behind him: another crunch.
Closer.
He didn't turn.
Didn't speak.
Instead, he crouched, pulling the spear from his back.
He whispered, lips barely moving.
"Come on, then."
Silence.
Not peace. Never peace.
Just… holding.
Like the whole world had taken a breath and refused to exhale.
A tree swayed.
Just one.
No wind.
Arthur didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
The tree stopped.
And from somewhere far too close…
A giggle.
High. Short. Childlike.
Then gone.
He bolted.
The light above him flickered — not dimmed, but glitched. The world stuttered.
He ran, and the trees blurred.
Then stopped.
Dead.
Staring.
A wall of trunks stood ahead. Straight. Uniform. No gaps. Just bark and shadow.
He turned left. Same.
Right. Same.
Behind him?
The stream.
Now black.
No water sound.
No flow.
Just a smear of mirror.
A blank reflection.
And in it… a figure.
Small.
Hunched.
A second Arthur.
But twisted. Wrong. Grinning.
He turned — nothing there.
He looked back — the reflection was waving.
Then it stepped out of the stream.
Arthur screamed.
This time, he didn't care.
He screamed like a wounded animal.
And it didn't echo.
The forest absorbed the sound like a sponge.
And something responded.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Running now.
Footsteps all around him.
Circling.
The reflection smiled wider.
Its eyes were blank.
It raised a finger to its lips.
Shhh.
Arthur turned and ran.
Blind.
Breathless.
Everywhere: footsteps. His? Theirs? It didn't matter.
The forest changed around him.
New paths. Old memories. A campsite he hadn't built. A tree marked with a symbol he'd never drawn.
The rules were folding.
The world was fracturing.
The whispers turned to voices.
Then laughter.
Then screaming — in his own voice.
Eventually, the footsteps stopped.
Arthur stopped, too.
Bent over. Gasping.
Alone.
He looked up.
Before him stood a tree. Familiar. Marked.
Not scratched.
Carved.
Words.
Burned into the bark with unnatural precision.
Rule 4: You're not alone in the daylight.
Underneath, another line. Smaller. Newly added.
And now they know you know.
Arthur dropped to his knees.
Shaking.
And for the first time in days—
He wept.