THE HUNTERS

 

The hunters 

The woods were unnaturally quiet. A weak breeze stirred the leaves, but failed to penetrate the dense canopy. It was morning, yet the path lay shrouded in shadow. No birds sang. No insects hummed. Even the crickets—those relentless night singers—were silent.

Brandon walked just behind his father on the worn trail, his boots crunching softly on the earth. He glanced back. A dark shape flickered behind a tree—too tall, too fast—then vanished before he could focus. He quickened his pace, not wanting to lose his father in the gloom.

He remembered the last time he’d gotten lost here. The terror. The way every shadow seemed to breathe. He’d nearly soiled himself waiting for something to lunge. Never again.

The path suddenly widened. Brandon lengthened his stride to walk beside his father.

“Father,” he whispered, “something’s wrong.”

His father didn’t break stride. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The woods. It’s too quiet.”

His father shook his head. “Deer feel safe in silence. That’s good for hunting.”

“No,” Brandon pressed, the hairs on his arms rising. “We’ve hunted here for years. This is different. Something’s changed.”

His father stopped. Turned. His eyes scanned the trees. “What is it?”

“Something’s following us.”

“Don’t be a fool. Nothing follows a hunter—unless it wants to end up in the cookpot.”

“What if the hunters become the hunted?”

His father’s jaw tightened. “Let’s move.”

They pressed on, but Brandon couldn’t stop looking back. Every shadow seemed to pulse. Every rustle, a footstep.

Then—he walked straight into his father’s back.

“Watch it—” he started, but his father’s hand clamped over his mouth. A sharp nod eastward.

Brandon followed the gesture.

There, in a small clearing, stood a massive buck. Its head lowered, grazing peacefully.

His father dropped to the ground. Brandon followed. They crawled forward on their bellies, silent as ghosts. At a hundred meters, they stopped. His father unslung the rifle, slow and deliberate.

Crack.

His elbow snapped a twig.

The deer’s head jerked up.

Brandon’s breath caught.

The buck’s face was wrong. Rotting. Flesh peeled back in wet strips. Maggots writhed in empty eye sockets. Flies swarmed. The stench hit like a fist—even from a hundred meters away.

Brandon gasped.

The deer bolted.

“What was that?” Brandon choked.

His father’s face was pale. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Then—a roar. Not distant. Close. A few meters into the brush. The ground trembled.

His father’s voice was a whisper. “What the hell was that?”

“The shadow,” Brandon said. “The one I saw earlier. It’s been following us.”

“You saw something and said nothing?”

“I thought it was nothing.”

His father grabbed his arm. “Run.”

They crashed through the underbrush, branches whipping their faces, thorns ripping clothes. Their breaths came in ragged bursts. The woods closed in, suffocating.

A low growl rolled behind them—closer now.

“It’s gaining!” Brandon cried.

“Keep moving!”

But their legs burned. Lungs screamed. The chase blurred into agony. Hours, not days—though it felt like days. Hunger clawed at their guts. Thirst cracked their lips.

“We can’t keep this up,” Brandon rasped.

His father scanned the trees. “We need food. Water. Something.”

Then—hope. A cluster of dark berries on a low bush.

“There!” Brandon pointed.

They stumbled forward, hands shaking as they plucked the fruit. Juice stained their fingers. For a moment, the world narrowed to hunger and relief.

Another growl. Right behind them.

Brandon froze. The berries fell from his hand.

The beast stepped from the shadows.

It was massive. Wrong-angled. Fur matted with blood and rot. Eyes like burning coals. It didn’t walk—it lurked, joints bending backward, head too low, too still.

Brandon’s bladder let go. Warmth spread down his leg.

He ran.

“Brandon!” his father shouted.

But fear had him. He sprinted blindly, branches slashing his face. His foot snagged a root. He fell hard, breath knocked out.

The beast loomed.

Then—light. A sliver through the trees. The edge of the woods.

With a final, desperate surge, Brandon scrambled up and ran. His father’s hand found his. Together, they burst from the treeline into blinding sunlight.

They collapsed in the grass, gasping, trembling. Behind them, the forest was silent again.

His father rolled onto his back, chest heaving. “You okay, son?”

Brandon nodded, tears cutting tracks through the dirt on his face. “I pissed myself.”

His father laughed—short, broken, but real. “Me too.”

They lay there, staring at the dark wall of trees. The air smelled of pine and freedom.

“I’m never going back,” Brandon whispered.

His father squeezed his shoulder. “Neither am I.”

But as the sun climbed higher, a single crow landed on a branch at the forest’s edge. It tilted its head. Watched them.

And deep in the shadows, something watched back.