05/11/2025
𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧: 𝐃𝐨 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐓𝐨 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞?
Every good writer needs peace and quiet: fresh air and a change of scenery.
You’re not running away, no, it’s more of a…tactical retreat, just to get those creative juices flowing. You really need to finish your novel, so now you’re in the middle of nowhere with the beautiful sprawling forests and mountains to keep you company.
Your family had been supportive of you going on a vacation and retreating for a while—until you told them where you were planning to run off to.
“Why go back there?” your mother had asked, her smile straining, an odd glint in her eyes. You said that you needed space to finish your book without any interruptions. “You know what happened in those woods. Just be careful, okay?”
Part of you had thought—somewhat naively—that coming back would bring inspiration. But as you stare out into the wilderness, all you feel is a cool chill running down your spine and goosebumps that uncomfortably prickle at your skin.
Your eyes peel away from the window and start typing.
Enough reminiscing. Your manuscript awaits.
You gaze out the window, expecting to watch the birds occasionally nest on their branches, but darkness greeted you instead.
The glow of your laptop illuminates the whole room. Standing upright from the chair, you stretch your arms out as you wander to the window again, nothing but the absolute darkness. But it’s in that darkness that you see it for the first time.
A shape. Huge. Looming.
A shadow against black.
You freeze—stuck in an awkward position. Your pulse deafens your ears.
Then two eyes peer back at you. No face. Just two eerily reflective eyes.
Maybe you saw it wrong—mistook rays of light for vertical slit pupils, eyes too large to fit a human face.
Those inhuman eyes stare at you, unblinking as you bolt to your bedroom. You huddle under the warmth of the blanket and squeeze your eyes shut. A few seconds in, you peer from the edge of the blanket and see no eyes, no shape. You’re just tired; it’s probably nothing.
Yet, in the stillness of the mountains outside, you swear you heard footsteps.
You wake to the daylight kissing your face.
For a moment, you forget how tired you are, how unsettled, venturing out from the cabin with sleepy eyes.
You stop dead in your tracks.
Something’s wrong. It wasn’t there before.
Outside the cabin door, two charred footprints were imprinted on the grass. Smoke and burnt grass linger in the air. Fresh as if it were left just moments before.
You just stare at those two shapes. You could run back to the cabin and lock the door—but a part of you waits for it to vanish in a single blink.
In a haze of fear, you call your mother. Of course, you don’t tell her about the charred footprints or the eyes you saw last night—you know how that sounds.
“Bad things happen in those mountains. Just promise me that you’ll be safe.” She told you, softness glazing every word.
That was the last conversation you had—with your mom, or with anyone.
A few hours after the call, you return to your laptop, but you decide to stay in the confines of the bedroom, tucked in bed and leaning against the bedframe.
The sound of mournful wails, like a wounded animal crying in pain, is unbearable–but not that unbearable to leave the cabin and ease your curiosity. Your gut clenches, warning you not to leave the safety of the cabin. Whatever it was, it wanted you outside.
You must have dozed off, because the wails have stopped— and your laptop won’t turn on. Tiny spills of daylight creep into the room. Your throat burns with thirst, so you fumble your way down to the kitchen, keeping the darkness at bay with your phone’s flashlight.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Heavy knocks from the front door thunder through your chest. Your head faced the door. The echo was too loud to be done by someone human.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. There it goes again.
You can’t just ignore it, so each step you took toward the front door was a step closer to who knows what. Holding your breath, you swing the door open, creaking all the way, as if giving a warning. There’s only darkness outside. No unknown looming shape or creepy eyes. Yet, a haunting and inhuman voice, almost childish, says,
“Do you want to play chase?”
This is the thing you see that night—a huge, terrifying creature with tendrils of darkness from its body—smoke—the same scent from the charred footprints. Then, two large eyes found their way to yours. Your phone clatters to the floor as you choke on a sob, inhaling air so thick with smoke that it hurts to breathe.
You turn around and dash to your bedroom, but huge claws stop you—grabbing you by the ankle. A guttural scream for help escaped your mouth. Your eyes well up with tears, not from the burn of its touch—but from knowing your end is near.
No, no, no, no.
And when it lunges at you, smoke claws its way to your throat as your sight can only process darkness.
The scene makes its way to your bedroom, where the laptop screen flickers, showing a blank document with a new typed-out sentence:
Do you want to play chase?
𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 | Xianthe Harvele Pangandoyon, Rijalcya Castellano, Princess Bea Malabanan, Diadem Odella Saycon
