Cynthia woke up sitting upright on a wooden chair.
The first thing she noticed was the cold.
It crept into her skin like a living thing, wrapping itself around her arms, her legs, her spine. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of wet leaves and rotting wood. Somewhere nearby, something dripped—slow, rhythmic drops that echoed through the darkness like a countdown.
She blinked once.
Twice.
Her vision sharpened.
She was in a forest.
Tall trees loomed over her, their branches tangled like skeletal fingers clawing at the night sky. The moonlight struggled to filter through the thick canopy above, casting long, distorted shadows that danced along the forest floor. The wind whispered through the leaves, carrying sounds that made her chest tighten—soft cracks, distant rustling, the unmistakable feeling that she was not alone.
Confusion settled in.
How did I get here?
Her heart began to pound as panic slowly seeped into her veins. She tried to move, to stand, to run—but her body refused to obey.
That was when she realized it.
Her arms were tied tightly to the chair.
So were her legs.
Rough ropes dug painfully into her skin, biting deeper each time she struggled. She gasped and tried to scream, but no sound came out. Her mouth was gagged, stuffed with a filthy piece of cloth that tasted of mold and iron. Terror surged through her like electricity.
"No… no… no…" she tried to say, but it came out as muffled whimpers.
She struggled harder.
The chair rocked violently beneath her, the ropes scraping against her wrists and ankles. Sharp pain exploded across her skin, and she cried out as she felt something tear. Thorns. The ropes were laced with thorns, designed to punish every movement.
Each struggle brought fresh scratches, fresh blood.
Soon, her strength faded.
Her breathing grew ragged, shallow, desperate. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the realization sank in—no one was coming. She was alone in the middle of a forest that felt wrong, cursed, alive in a way forests were never meant to be.
Her body sagged against the chair.
This is it, she thought. This is how I die.
Then—
"Hey."
The sound snapped through the silence like a blade.
Her head jerked up.
Footsteps approached from behind the trees, slow and deliberate. A figure stepped into the dim moonlight—a boy, not much older than her. He was tall, with an easy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His presence felt strange, unsettling, yet absurdly normal in a place that should not have held anything human.
"What's a pretty girl like you doing out here all by yourself?" he asked lightly, almost amused.
Before she could react, his hands reached for her face. Panic flared—but instead of hurting her, he removed the gag.
She sucked in air greedily, coughing and gasping as her lungs burned.
"I—I don't know," she croaked. Her voice trembled. "Please… help me."
He studied her for a moment, head tilted, like she was a puzzle he was deciding whether to solve. Then, without another word, he bent down and began loosening the ropes.
Relief washed over her.
Her limbs tingled painfully as circulation returned. When the last rope fell away, she nearly collapsed forward, but he steadied her.
"All done," he said casually, stepping back.
"Thank you," she whispered, trying to stand.
That was when she saw it.
The boy was standing in front of her—
Headless.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Where his head should have been was only a jagged, bloody stump. Blood gushed out in thick streams, splattering onto the forest floor. The world seemed to tilt violently.
Behind him stood someone else.
A figure so horrifying that her mind struggled to comprehend it.
Janet.
Or something that wore Janet's face.
Her body was larger, twisted, muscles bulging unnaturally beneath torn skin. Her eyes burned with something feral, something hateful. In one hand, she held a cutlass, its blade slick with fresh blood. In the other—
The boy's head.
Blood poured from it like a fountain.
Cynthia screamed.
The sound tore out of her throat, raw and wild. She turned and ran.
Branches whipped against her face as she fled through the forest, her feet barely touching the ground. Her heart hammered violently as she ran faster, harder, desperate to escape.
But something was wrong.
No matter how fast she ran, the scenery didn't change.
The trees remained the same. The shadows stayed close. It felt like invisible hands were gripping her, dragging her backward. Her legs grew heavy, her lungs burned, her strength vanished.
She stumbled.
Fell.
Pain exploded as her body hit the ground.
She tried to crawl away, sobbing, but strong hands grabbed her shoulders and slammed her back down.
Janet loomed over her.
The cutlass rose.
"No!" Cynthia screamed—
She bolted upright in bed.
Her scream echoed through the room as she gasped for air, clutching her chest. Sweat drenched her body, soaking the sheets. Her heart raced uncontrollably, thudding so hard it hurt.
"It was just a dream," she whispered shakily.
But it didn't feel like one.
She stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom, turning on the shower and letting cold water cascade over her trembling body. Even as the water ran, she could still see Janet's face. Still hear the scream.
For the past week, it had been the same.
Different details. Same ending.
Janet.
Her best friend.
Dead.
Janet had been the first person who welcomed her into the school dance team. They had been inseparable—laughing, training, sharing secrets. People joked that they were a package deal.
Until everything shattered.
The memory hit her like a punch.
Janet. Alex. The betrayal.
The knock on the bathroom door startled her.
"Cynthia?" Mara's voice came through, worried. "Are you okay? I've been knocking for like twenty minutes."
"I'm fine," Cynthia said quickly, tying her towel.
Mara eyed her suspiciously when she stepped out. "You were screaming."
"It was nothing."
"Nothing doesn't sound like that."
Cynthia brushed past her, shivering. She dressed quickly, her thoughts heavy. When Mara asked about the dream, Cynthia told her everything—every detail.
"Well," Mara said softly, "did you pray about it?"
Cynthia scoffed. "You know I don't believe in God."
Mara opened her mouth to argue, but Cynthia cut her off. "Please. I'm tired."
She went back to bed, forcing sleep to come.
The next day passed like a blur—lectures, rehearsals, routine. But the unease never left her.
Janet's face haunted her.
The guilt.
She had been the last person to see Janet alive.
No one knew what really happened that day in the school hall. The argument. The shove. Cynthia walking away without looking back.
The next morning, Janet was dead.
They called it an accident.
But Cynthia knew better.
That night, as she lay in bed, her phone buzzed.
A message.
From an unknown number.
I know what you did.
Her blood ran cold.