The Iron Grip
Panic was a cold, oily slick in George's chest as the group darted through the muck, their boots churning the stagnant water into a frothy grey foam. They moved in a tight, back-to-back formation, a bristling circle of steel and magic intended to ward off the phantom that haunted their every shadow. The air remained heavy with the smell of sulfur, but now it was punctuated by the sharp, terrifying sound of Jenny Greenteeth's wet, clicking laughter.
"Don't break formation!" Flynn commanded, his voice tight with the strain of leadership. "If we spread out, she'll pick us off one by one!"
They continued forward until the marsh gave way to a slightly elevated mound of earth anchored by the gnarled, massive roots of a weeping willow. The tree looked like a skeletal hand reaching out of the silt.
"We stop here," Flynn grunted, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He leaned against the plated bark, his eyes never leaving the rippling water. "We can't keep running in the dark; we'll walk right into a sinkhole. We'll take turns watching. Two guards at a time, no exceptions."
But as they tried to carve out a moment of respite, the forest refused to let them rest. The silence of the night was a lie. George could feel her gaze—a physical sensation like needles pricking his skin. Jenny wasn't just hunting them; she was playing with them. The taunting, rhythmic chant drifted through the weeping branches, carried by a wind that seemed to howl with a voice of its own.
"One, two, three, four..."
The water around their small island rippled violently in a dozen different spots at once, as if invisible heavy stones were being dropped into the pools.
"She's here!" Arthur yelled, drawing his silver blade. The golden accents on his tunic, once bright and regal, were now dulled by the grime of the swamp.
Jenny Greenteeth materialized in a blur of distorted green mana, then vanished before a single spell could be cast. She was a glitch in reality, reappearing in a flash of emerald teeth and long, mossy hair. The struggle was a frantic, desperate defense against a relentless and unpredictable ghost. One moment, her bulbous, deformed face was inches from Arthur's, her foul breath smelling of ancient rot. The next, she was behind Flynn, her wickedly long claws raking through the air where his head had been a second before. Then, with a shriek like grinding stones, she lunged at Siri.
"Siri, down!" George roared, thrusting his hands forward. He unleashed a ball of pressurized air, but Jenny simply shimmered through the current. She managed to snag George's leg as she passed, and the sensation was jarring—her grip was indeed like cold iron, a strength that defied her gaunt, sickly appearance. She began to drag him toward the edge of the muddy bank, her webbed feet digging into the silt.
"Lwt him go!" Arthur snarled, his blade whistling through the air.
It took their combined strength, just to force her to let go. Jenny recoiled, melting back into the murky depths with a mocking splash.
"She's strong," George gasped, clutching his bruised forearm where her fingers had left dark, translucent smudges of slime. "She's stronger than any anything we've seen so far. She's trying to tire us out so she can drag us under."
The group retreated further against the trunk of the tree, their hearts hammering in a synchronized rhythm of dread. In the Forest of Golems, the darkness didn't just hide monsters; it breathed them. And as the clock in the sky continued its silent, glowing countdown, George realized that Jenny Greenteeth wasn't planning on letting any of them reach the next zone.