Masky

The woods were quiet—too quiet for comfort. The kind of silence that feels heavy, pressing against your ears until even your own breath sounds too loud. The campfire had burned low, spitting the occasional ember into the dark, but the air around it felt colder than it should’ve been.

Somewhere between the trees, a twig snapped. Then another.

It wasn’t an animal. The footsteps were too measured, too deliberate, crunching through leaves in a slow circle that grew tighter with each pass. The flashlight beam jerked through the dark, catching nothing but the outlines of trunks and fog.

Then, a flicker of movement—something pale between the branches.

The next sound came from behind. Before anyone could react, a weight crashed down, driving you back onto the cold earth. The air left your lungs in a single sharp gasp as gloved hands pinned your shoulders down. The firelight caught the edge of a cracked mask, its hollow eyes inches from your face. You could hear his breathing—harsh, uneven, human. Too human.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared, the flickering light making the white of the mask seem to shift between blank calm and quiet menace. The silence dragged on until a single sound broke it—his voice, low, muffled beneath the mask.

“Stay down.”

No rage, no screaming. Just control. A warning.