Prey
My boots crunch against the forest floor, each
step careful, each movement precise—like walking a fraying tightrope over a
pit. The Enchanted Forest looms around me, its ancient trees stretching high,
their twisted branches like gnarled fingers reaching, waiting. The air is thick
with the scent of damp moss, decaying leaves, and the faint sweetness of hidden
wildflowers. I take a breath, but it catches, my chest tightening. The humidity
clings to me, heavy and stifling, like the forest itself is closing in,
wrapping around me like a second skin.
A rustle. Low. Close.
The sound cuts through the hush, a whisper of
movement in the underbrush. My heart stutters, slamming against my ribs like
it’s trying to break free. Silence follows—not empty, but alive, watching. My
pulse pounds in my ears, louder than the wind through the canopy, louder than
the distant trickle of unseen water.
Something is there.
I press myself against a tree, holding my breath,
body rigid. Sweat slicks my skin, mixing with the grime of too many days on the
run. The dampness of fear is worse. A prickling sensation creeps up my spine,
slow as a spider’s legs. Every nerve screams at me to move, to run—but I don’t.
I can’t.
Another rustle. Closer this time.
I don’t think. I act.
Before I register it, I’m moving. The creek
appears ahead, my body lunging forward. Ice-cold water crashes against my legs,
stealing my breath, numbing my skin. I sink beneath the surface, the cold
gripping me like a vice, squeezing the air from my lungs. My fingers dig into
smooth river stones, anchoring me as the current tugs, as if the river itself
wants to drag me deeper, to hide me.
The world shifts in the water’s silence. The murk
swirls, distorting the forest above. My breath is too loud, ragged, breaking
the quiet like muffled screams. Panic presses against my ribs, a wild,
desperate thing demanding I surface, that I flee. I force myself still. I wait.
The water is clearer than I expected. Tiny
bubbles drift past, catching slivers of light filtering through the canopy. The
cold gnaws at me, sharp and relentless, burrowing deep into my bones. A
reminder—this isn’t safety. Safety is an illusion.
I tighten my grip on the stones, as if holding on
will keep me from unraveling.
I’ve been running for days. Time blurs—one
breathless, endless chase. The forest never lets go. The whisper of danger
never fades. Every flicker of movement, every crunch of leaves, every sigh of
wind—it all feeds the growing certainty in my gut.
I can’t keep this up forever.
Sooner or later, the forest will take me.
The cold water stings my skin, sharp as ice. For
a moment, it’s like waking from a fevered dream. Every nerve, every muscle—numb
for too long—jolts awake. I scrub at my arms, my face, desperate to wash away
the fear, the grime of running. But it clings. It always clings.
Damn those raccoons. The thought cuts through the
haze in my mind like broken glass scraping stone. And the Potato—curse that
damned thing. It has to be them. What else could have dragged me this deep into
the woods? What else lurks just beyond my vision, watching, waiting? I can feel
it—close. Too close.
A name crashes into me like a stone dropping into
my chest.
Grant.
His face flashes in my mind—sharp jaw, cold eyes,
the way his voice used to ground me when I felt like I was unraveling. My
breath catches. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. He could be out
there. The thought tightens inside me, pulling like a rope around my ribs.
Searching for me.
Or for my murderer.
The words form before I can stop them, thick and
suffocating. My stomach churns. I bite my cheek hard enough to taste blood,
trying to force them away, but they won’t leave. They press in, unshakable.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
A whisper escapes me. “He could be out there…”
The voice is mine, but it doesn’t sound like me.
It’s hollow, distant—like someone else spoke. Someone frayed at the edges.
I lift my head. My eyes scan the trees. Shadows
creep between the twisted branches, stretching long and jagged. My heartbeat
pounds in my throat, so loud it drowns out the wind, the rustling leaves.
Am I being watched?
I swallow, but the lump in my throat won’t budge.
A flicker of movement—just at the edge of my vision. My breath hitches. I turn,
but there’s nothing. Just trees. Just the wind.
I don’t wait. I can’t.
One foot shifts forward, sinking into damp earth.
My legs shake. The forest stretches ahead, the darkness pooling, shifting,
breathing. Every step feels wrong, like I’m walking through a dream where the
world bends and shifts beneath me.
Silence clings to the air, thick and suffocating.
Even the birds are gone. The stillness isn’t normal. It isn’t right.
Then, it hits me.
A chill coils around my spine, slow and certain.
I’m not alone.
My heart pounds—fast, frantic. Too loud. Too
wild. It’ll give me away.
I push forward, barely touching the ground before
I’m moving again. Faster. The world blurs, but I can’t stop. The trees loom
ahead, twisted shadows with gnarled branches reaching for me. They whip at my
face, cold and wet, like something breathing against my skin. The air smells of
damp earth, decaying leaves, and something metallic underneath. Blood? No. Not
yet.
It’s the Raccoons and the Potato. I hold onto the
thought like a lifeline. It makes sense.
They have to be behind this.
My mind spins, fragments scattering. Too many
thoughts. What if it’s not them?
A rustle. A shift in the dark. My stomach knots.
My breath catches.
It’s out there. Watching.
A weight presses on my chest, cold and heavy. It
coils up my spine, tightens around my throat. I’m being hunted. Something moves
through the trees, silent and patient. It knows how to wait. How to stalk.
And me?
I’m running.
The voice in my head sneers:
That’s what I’m supposed to be. But right now? I
feel small. Wrong. Off-balance, like a puppet with no strings.
A twig snaps—too sharp, too close. I lurch
forward, almost tripping. My breath burns in my throat. The wind bites into my
skin, cold and sharp, mixing with the sweat. Every nerve screams—move, move,
MOVE.
I should turn. Face it. Fight.
I don’t.
The dark swallows everything, stretching,
twisting, changing. No paths, no edges, no escape. Just the creeping certainty
that whatever’s chasing me is winning.
I freeze.
Not by choice, but because something is
wrong—tightening around my ribs, squeezing too hard.
The clearing spreads out before me—too wide, too
exposed. The wind shifts, sharp and knowing, carrying the scent of damp fur and
oil, mixed with something worse. Something rotten. It slides down my throat,
thick and suffocating. My stomach lurches.
I take a deeper breath, testing the air.
The realization hits like a slap—cold and hard. I
should’ve known.
The raccoons weren’t chasing me.
They were herding me.
A shadow flickers—too fast, too quiet. My
instincts scream. I throw myself backward, spinning just as the air behind me
explodes.
A force—massive, crushing—slams into the ground
where I stood, sending dirt and leaves flying. The earth groans beneath me,
trembling from the impact.
I hit the ground hard, feet sliding, knees
buckling. My breath rips from my chest, heartbeat hammering in my ears.
I’ve been played.
Like a fool.
Like prey, led straight to the slaughterhouse.