The night was restless, stretched wide like a yawning mouth, swallowing the last whispers of the wind. The trees stood still, petrified by the presence of what gathered below. A crowd, a writhing, undulating mass of creatures too horrific to be real, yet there they were—breathing, shifting, waiting.
They moved like a sea of nightmares, their bodies grotesque and mismatched, as if stitched together from the forgotten fears of humanity. Eyes, far too many and far too knowing, blinked in uneven rhythms. Some creatures towered above the others, their elongated limbs twitching, fingers like roots grasping at the air. Others crawled, their twisted forms dragging along the dirt, leaving behind dark stains of something that was not quite blood.
They did not speak, not in any way a human would understand. Instead, there was a sound—a low, guttural vibration that rippled through the air. It was not a growl, nor was it a whisper. It was something in between, something that slipped into the ears and coiled around the mind, sinking deep into the marrow of the bones.
At the heart of the gathering stood a figure unlike the others. Its face, if it could be called that, was a shifting canvas of features, constantly morphing, adopting expressions of agony, rage, and unsettling joy. Eyes formed and disappeared, mouths curled into grimaces and smirks, and still, it remained silent. Yet the others turned toward it, waiting.
A signal. A command.
Then the crowd surged forward.
Their bodies twisted together in a seamless tide of horror, rolling like a wave over the ground. Some skittered on too many legs, others leaped, their clawed hands grasping at the air as if already feeling the warmth of flesh within their grasp. They moved with hunger, but not for food. No, this hunger was deeper, a void that could never be filled.
And then you realized—this was not a random gathering. This was not some coincidental convergence of nightmares.
They had been waiting. For you.
The realization settled like a stone in your stomach. The way they moved, the way they all turned in perfect unison—this was not an accident. They knew you. They had always known you.
Your breath caught in your throat as the first one reached for you, its fingers cold, its skin like old parchment stretched too thin.
You wanted to scream, to run. But where would you go? The night was theirs.