A Late Night’s Walk

The moon was high when I staggered out of the bar, whiskey burning in my gut and the woman’s laugh still buzzing in my ear. I’d meant to find a bed for the night – maybe hers – but a bet was a bet, and I wasn’t about to back down now. Dead Man’s Hollow, they called it, just past the old sawmill, where the trees grew too thick, and the wind sounded like whispering voices.

She’d dared me to go alone, no lantern, no gun, just my cocky grin and a promise to return before dawn. So I went, boots crunching on dried leaves, the distant hoot of an owl my only company. But when the air turned thick and the shadows moved just wrong, I felt the first sliver of doubt.

I told myself it was the drink, the dark – until I saw the shape in the trees.

It was watching. Not a man, not a beast. Something else. A figure tall as hell, wrapped in deep red, the glint of something sharp where a face should be. My breath went shallow. My body locked up. I thought of running, but before I could, the thing moved – fast as thought, close enough to taste my fear. Cold fingers brushed my throat, my chest, lower still. The whispering grew louder, wrapping around me like a lover’s murmur.

Then, just as sudden, it was gone. I stood there shaking, my heart pounding like a hammer in my ribs. Behind me, the woman’s voice came low and lazy from the dark, amused.

“If it were going to kill you, sweety, it would have by now.”