A frigid draft crept under the lodge door, making the candle flame gutter and throw wild shadows against the walls. Mark’s knuckles whitened around the hunting knife as he stepped toward the window. He peered out through the smeared glass, his breath fogging the pane.
“Nothing but fog,” he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction. In the silence that followed, Robin’s hands trembled as she tried to fold the brittle map, the paper crinkling loudly in the suffocating quiet. I watched her, heart thundering, feeling the weight of those unsettling symbols press in on us.
My skin prickled as I scanned the carvings again. One, near the door, looked fresher than the others—its edges raw, splinters bright against the dark-stained wood. Had it been made recently? The thought made my stomach clench. I forced my breath slow, fighting off the wave of panic.
Robin crouched beside the hearth, examining the pile of bones, her pale fingers picking one up and turning it over. “This one’s… not old,” she whispered. “Still got scraps on it. Whatever did this, it’s—”
Mark cut her off with a sharp gesture. “Shh.”
Outside, something heavy thumped against the wall. The boards rattled as if struck by an open palm—or something larger. All three of us froze. The candle flame skittered and nearly died. I saw Robin’s lips part in silent terror. Mark took a step back, knife raised.
A sickening, guttural snarl rose from beneath the floor, directly under our feet. I recoiled, stumbling into the broken table. Dust rose in a choking cloud. Mark’s eyes darted to me, wild and desperate. Robin bit down on a scream, her hands pressed to her mouth.
We needed to decide, and fast. The map was our only clue—a possible path through the woods, away from this place. But the hunter, whatever it was, was near. Maybe in the crawlspace below. Or right outside. My mind raced through options: barricade the door and windows, try to hide, make a run for it while the thing circled, or confront the unknown horror with whatever courage we could muster.
Another thud—the door buckled inward, hinges whining. Something enormous and unseen pressed against it, clawing, sniffing. The candle went out, plunging us into darkness so thick it wrapped around my throat like a shroud. Robin clung to my arm, her fingers digging in. Mark’s blade wavered in the blackness, catching a glimmer of moonlight through the foggy pane. My heart hammered. The carvings on the wall seemed to writhe, as if the very lodge itself was alive—waiting, hungry.
The door shuddered again, splinters raining onto the dirt floor. One more hit and it might give way. The map crinkled in Robin’s shaking hands. Mark braced himself before the door. The thing outside drew a long, rasping breath, savoring the scent of its prey.
I felt sweat trickle down my spine. Time slowed to a crawl. My next move would decide if any of us made it out of here—or if we’d simply become another carving in the hunter’s den.