DEADLY RETREAT

The first thing I noticed was the stench. It was as if something had died, rotted, and then was brought back to life only to rot again. The air was thick, suffocating, and clung to my skin like a diseased lover. I had come to this forsaken place for solitude, a break from the constant churn of the city. Instead, I found an old cabin hidden deep within the woods, miles away from the nearest road or human soul.

I hadn't seen him at first. In fact, if it weren't for the raven perched on the windowsill, its eyes glassy and dead, I might have left. But the bird didn't move, didn't fly away as I approached. It just stared, its beak open in a silent scream.

The man appeared like a shadow. One moment, the cabin seemed empty, and the next, he was there, standing in the doorway. His clothes were tattered, stained with substances I couldn't identify, and his eyes... his eyes bore into mine with an intensity that made my blood run cold.

You shouldn't be here.

His voice was gravelly, broken, like someone who hadn't used it in years. I wanted to ask what he was doing there, why the cabin reeked of decay, but my tongue felt heavy.

I was just passing through, I managed to say, forcing the words out.

He stepped closer, and I could see the scars crisscrossing his face, some old, some fresh. They told stories of violence, of pain, of things better left unspoken.

Passing through? There's nothing to pass through to. This place, it's a dead end.

I felt a shiver run down my spine. The way he said dead end made it sound final, like a warning.

I just needed a place to rest for the night. I'll be out of your hair by morning.

He chuckled, a sound that was more unsettling than comforting.

Rest? In this place? No one rests here.

I glanced around, suddenly aware of how silent the forest had become. No birds, no insects. Just the oppressive quiet and the overwhelming odor of rot.

You can stay, if you want, he said, stepping aside to let me in. But understand this: whatever you think you've left behind, it will find you here.

The floorboards creaked under my weight as I entered the cabin. The interior was worse than the outside--dark stains on the walls, broken furniture, and in the corner, something that looked disturbingly like a pile of bones.

What happened here? I asked, unable to keep the tremor out of my voice.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked over to a small, grimy window and stared out into the darkness.

Things. Things that shouldn't be here. They come, they go, but they always leave a mark.

I didn't understand what he meant, but I felt a growing sense of dread. I should have turned around, walked back into the forest, and never looked back. But something kept me rooted to the spot, a morbid curiosity or perhaps a deeper, unspoken fear.

Do you believe in the supernatural? he asked, finally turning to face me.

I hesitated. In the rational world I knew, ghosts and monsters were just stories. But here, in this place, with this man, I wasn't so sure.

I don't know.

He nodded, as if that was the answer he expected.

You will. Before you leave, you will.

The night crept in, and with it, an eerie stillness. The man, whose name I still didn't know, sat in a corner, sharpening a knife. The sound of metal against stone was the only thing breaking the silence.

I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I felt like something was watching me, lurking just beyond the edge of my consciousness. And then I heard it--a whisper, barely audible, but unmistakable.

Leave. Now. Before it's too late.

I bolted upright, my heart pounding. The man was still in his corner, seemingly oblivious to the voice. I wanted to ask if he heard it too, but the words caught in my throat.

Instead, I stood and moved toward the door, thinking I could slip out unnoticed. But as I reached for the handle, his voice stopped me.

Leaving already?

I froze, my hand inches from freedom.

I... I thought I heard something.

He smiled, a grotesque twist of his scarred face.

You did. And if you leave now, you'll hear much worse.

I turned to face him, my fear giving way to desperation.

What is this place? Why can't I leave?

He sighed, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

This place is a trap. For souls, for dreams, for everything. And once you're caught, there's no escape.

I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. The walls seemed to close in, the air growing thicker by the second.

But why? Why me?

He didn't answer. Instead, he walked over to a small, dusty table and picked up an old, tattered book. He handed it to me, his eyes never leaving mine.

Read this. It might help you understand.

I took the book, its cover brittle and worn. The pages were yellowed, some barely holding together, but the symbols and text inside were unmistakably ancient. As I flipped through, I saw drawings—grotesque, surreal images of beings that defied the natural order, creatures of nightmare and chaos.

The man watched me intently, his eyes never wavering. I could feel a weight, an ominous presence, grow heavier with each passing second.

As I delved deeper into the book, the words seemed to pulse, writhe on the page. The text described rituals, sacrifices, and otherworldly entities that thrived on fear and despair. The lines blurred, and I felt a despairing realization take hold: this place was a conduit, a nexus for horrors beyond comprehension.

What do they want? I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He leaned closer, his breath hot and rancid. They want existence. They feed on it, twist it. This place is their playground, and we've all been invited to the game.

My mind raced, trying to process the enormity of what he was saying. The oppressive air seemed to throb with malevolence. I wanted to run, but my legs felt like lead.

I don't want to be part of this, I said, my voice trembling.

He shrugged, a gesture so casual it was chilling. None of us do, but choice is an illusion here.

The room darkened, shadows stretching and contorting. The air grew thicker, almost viscous, and a low, guttural growl emanated from the walls. I dropped the book, my heart hammering in my chest.

What... what is happening? I stammered, backing away.

He stood, his knife now gleaming dully in the dim light. They're coming. They always come. But it's too late to leave. You're part of this now.

The growl became a cacophony of whispers, overlapping, incomprehensible but filled with malice. The walls seemed to breathe, and the stains on the floor began to shimmer and writhe, forming grotesque patterns.

I turned to the door, but it was no longer there. In its place, a pulsing void, a maw of darkness that seemed to suck in all light. Panic set in, and I spun around to face the man, but he too had changed. His eyes were now black voids, his scars weeping dark fluid.

This is the end, he said, his voice merging with the whispers. The end of what you know, the beginning of what you fear.

The darkness encroached, swallowing the room, the man, and everything I once understood. I felt myself being pulled into the void, my very essence unraveling.

In the final moments, just before the darkness consumed me entirely, I realized the truth. This place wasn't just a trap; it was a revelation, a peeling back of the thin veneer of reality to reveal the chaos beneath. The man was right: I would understand, but understanding came at the price of everything I once was.

And then, there was nothing but the void, an eternal, unending night where the only certainty was the presence of the things that should not be.

Victor Hal

Venture into the depths of darkness and fear with Victor Hal, your storyteller of haunting secrets and supernatural dread.