It had finally become night, and as the sun sunk away from her place in the gray sky, copper light plunged into the growing darkness that stretched over the town. The spread of black had a circling vignette of yellow and brown, which were the same as the artificial, flickering lights that lined the streets and roads, illuminating the dirty, polluted world in a similar cloudy fervor. The moon had just begun to rise, her pale face adding a great, beauteous contrast to the murky darkness that covered the town, and her brighter, whiter light makes the clouds swirl, blowing cool gusts of wind that shook the trees’ few leaves, playing with the blueish strands that crowned Simu’s head.

A dead leaf, curled into itself and covered in tiny, clever holes dances down the pavement, moving two steps further every time Simu makes one. The brittle, decaying blade follows an irregular, inconsistent path, rolling around on the uneven ground, bumping into the few pebbles that Simu kicks, the toe of his shoe sending them meters from where he paced. The rocks skitter into corners and cracks he'd later trip on, burrowing into the small craters that dent the sidewalk. The air is clean, sweet, and he relishes in the saccharine, almost tart taste that fills his lungs and nose, bringing him peace and joy on this quiet night. 

The camera wound around his neck bumps along to the rhythm of his strides, thudding against his chest and letting out little pat thap thums. Pat, thap, thum, pat, thap, thum, and as he's distracted by the easy beat of his swinging camera, his foot makes a longer stride, and the low, muffled crunch underneath his shoe ends the clunky, modest song. 

    He’s arrived.

Up ahead, a forest stretches; a wide, gaping mouth of green. The dark color is inviting, calm, and Simu finds beauty in its great mystery. The thickets of trees are full of many secrets, and no one has dared to enter its waiting maw, to be lured inside the vast, pine mass. Unless you counted the adventures of the neighbor’s kids, full of screaming and shouting at every squirrel that darted past them, then the woods were always empty; a peculiar, bizarre void.

Those boys would cry out, claiming there was a killer loose in the copses circling the streams and creeks they splashed and swam in. That a quirky man, standing six and three-quarters feet tall, with hair the same color as flames waded through the woods, his frail body colliding with the waving branches as he stumbled down the rickety slopes. And as soon as he crossed the wooden limbs, they would snap and fall to the ground, shrieking when torn from their respective trees. They would roll down the steep mounds of earth and mud, frantically crawling away from the shadows of his feet, and you could see his massive footprints in the pine and straw, marking paths that no one was bold enough to follow.

They say his voice is deeper than the grumbles of the mountains over yonder, and that his words were as hoarse and rough as the blacksmith’s beard. His eyes are supposedly as dark as the burnt metal wrung over beams, which wait for foolish prey, dull and lifeless and without sign of mercy. And when he mutters these three words, each line different from the last, you are bound to him, and death snakes their spindly fingers around your throat, pressing, laying a ghostly veil over you and keeping you from the world. “Are you she, are you her,” he’d cry, and pace towards you, pulling at the flesh of your cheeks and neck. “Come to me, you are mine,” and his fiery hair would lap at you, flicking its scalding tongue along your jaw, curling around the bulge of your eyes. “Inside, inside. Inside, inside.” And then you die a horrible, horrible death-- the details were far too gruesome for Simu to speak of, and he shivers, shaking the ghastly images from his mind.

But of course, that was only a rumor. A story shared to keep the children from wandering too far from their mothers’ gaze. He and the surrounding residents knew that better than anyone. Yet, he allowed himself to be pulled by the invisible hands of wind, and he staggers closer to the green haze, the quiet squeak of rabbit and toad drowning in the howl of the breeze, the singing of the crickets, the voice that beckons for Simu to come closer. He had come here to feed his curiosity, to rid himself of the sleepless hours spent fussing over the mysterious trees, the man that allegedly wandered those woods. He promised himself he would take a picture of this ‘killer.’ He wanted proof, for a part of him was worried that he would only imagine his presence, as pale purple rings hung under his eyes, and insomnia cursed him still. Though he had fog in his head, casting a hazy film over his thoughts, covering the more rational part of him, he steps closer anyway, til he’s finally entered the woods. He cannot resist the forest’s enigma.

He pushes away the waving stem of leaves swinging idly over his head, and the soft rustling scares him, as he is not familiar with the sound. The time he had taken to adjust to his new surroundings and venture deeper into the green abyss only ended up hurting him, scaring him. Simu could hear the faint, quick, short steps of a great beast, some creature bounding through the thin bushes and nestling into the roots of a fallen tree. His heart increases in speed, and he feels his chest tighten, his sight becoming clearer and focusing on the scrawls of green. It’s just a rabbit, he assured himself, slowly, cautiously dragging his feet in the mud, creeping closer to the stump only a yard from where he crouched. He uses the rush of adrenaline to crawl further, nearing the murmuring of the curious, intelligent being nosing at the gnarly wound that peels the bark from an ancient, withering tree. It’s just a deer, it’s just some mouse. Nothing is going to hurt you.

    He lowers himself to the ground, digging his fingers into the dirt. He wriggles some more, and his shirt is covered in the black-brown earth, damp and hugging his chest. He seethes at the cool breeze that sends tremors down his spine and scurries towards the creature’s silhouette, making the last, final stretch and screams. He can feel the saliva bubble in the back of his throat as he cries out, and he nearly slams his head into the wooden sprouts. A palm cups the back of his skull, and long, thin fingers probe at the sensitive dip behind his ears. He jerks at the odd sensation, violently thrashing, until another hand, skeletal and almost translucent, forces him to be still.

    “Simu?”

At the call of his name, Simu’s eyes widen, and his lips part, his jaw flexing, but no sound comes out. He stares at the figure before him, ogling over its thin, bony face, the shadows that hang from his cheekbones, the smoldering yellow that colors his eyes. He seems troubled, and Simu backs away, panicked, hysterical. Why did he recognize the boy standing over him? How did he recognize him? No one was supposed to be here, and the kids had only been stirring up trouble... Was he hallucinating? Yes, yes, that’s it. He’s hallucinating. The confused expression of the man was something he made up, nothing more than a daydream come to life.

    Fumbling with his camera, Simu takes a hold of its rectangular build and aims it at the stranger, but his hands are too shaky, he can’t keep still, and he can’t bring himself to press the button beside his forefinger. He doesn’t break away from their intense eye contact, and he whimpers, for his breaths are too shallow, too ragged for him to exhale and inhale comfortably.

    “Simu, God, what’s wrong with you? Why’re you all the way out here?” 

    “Felix?”

    “No, Dewei.” Felix rolls his eyes, taking Simu’s hand in his. He pulls him up, letting out a huff from the effort, and wipes his palm on his green-brown jeans. “I’m looking for someone, so don’t go butting in my business. Explain yourself. What in--”

    “Listen,” he interjected, raising his hand. They both fall silent, and Felix looks around, becoming annoyed by Simu’s restlessness. There was nothing to worry about, and what was he even supposed to be listening for? He couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary.

    “Quit it, Simu. There’s no--”

    “I said, listen!”

The phut phut of metal against thigh was unmistakable, and out of place. The calming, natural sounds of the wilderness had dissipated, for they trained their ears on the repeating phut, phut. They stare at each other again, and Felix’s small eyes are rounder now, his wild hair beige under the rising moon.

    “Did you hear that?”

A hatchet swings, carving a long, deep slit into the side of Felix’s thin face, and red trickles from the gash that tears his flesh. It takes a second for Simu to register the gruesome sight, and he lets out a startled screech, desperately trying to run away. He slips in the soppy soil, falling to the ground, and wails as he pushes through the wet, velvety mounds, urgently writhing to make his escape. He ducks his head at the calls of his friend, who roars in pain, yelling his name. His heart booms in his ears and he moves faster, farther away, but it isn’t enough.

    “Come to me,”

    He screams, begging for mercy, the horrifying sound bubbling in his throat, and he hacks, spitting. A bit of blood collects at his lower lip in sticky, web-like clots, and he nearly purges, the smell of iron and rust overwhelming him.

    “You are mine.”