Chapter 3: The Rabbit Tree

Chapter 3: The Rabbit Tree

The morning after was thick with a silence more menacing than any scream. Alex hadn't slept. He’d spent the night huddled on his bed, listening, convinced that every scrape of a branch against the roof was the eyeless thing trying to claw its way back to his window. When dawn finally broke, painting the sky in pale, sickly shades of grey and pink, it offered no comfort, only a clearer view of the prison of trees surrounding them.

He stumbled downstairs to find his father at the kitchen table, methodically oiling his hunting rifle, the metallic scent of solvent cutting through the aroma of brewing coffee. Mark didn't look up, his movements precise and controlled—the actions of a man desperately imposing order on a world that had just shown him a glimpse of chaos.

"I saw him," Alex said, his voice raw from lack of sleep. "Outside my window. The man from the road. He climbed the wall."

Mark paused, his hand stilling on the rifle's stock. He finally looked at Alex, and his eyes were tired but hard. "You had a nightmare, son."

"It wasn't a nightmare! I was wide awake. He was right there. He didn't have any eyes, Dad." The words tumbled out, frantic and unhinged even to his own ears. He sounded crazy, and he knew it. That was the worst part.

"Enough," Mark said, his voice a low growl. "You're scaring your sister. You're scaring your mother. You got spooked by a local weirdo on the road, and your imagination did the rest. It stops now."

"But—"

"I said, it stops!" Mark slammed a fist on the table, making the coffee cups jump. Maya, who had been quietly coloring at the other end, flinched. Sarah shot her husband a warning look. "This is what's wrong with your generation. Too much time staring at screens, you can't handle the real world. You need to get your hands dirty. Get your head clear."

He stood up, his decision made. "You and me. We're going hunting. Mack needs a run, and you need to see that this is just a forest. Trees, dirt, and animals. Nothing more."

It wasn't a request. Alex felt a surge of hopeless anger. His father wasn't listening; he was prescribing a cure for a disease he refused to diagnose. Arguing was pointless. He was being dragged into the one place he never wanted to set foot in again.

Twenty minutes later, he was following his father into the woods. Mark moved with a hunter’s confidence, his rifle held at a low ready. Alex followed, his own senses screaming, every shadow a potential threat, every rustle of leaves the approach of something monstrous. Between them trotted Mack, their golden retriever, his tail wagging in blissful ignorance. He was the only one who seemed to belong here.

For a while, the hunt was dismally normal. The sun filtered through the canopy in dappled patches, insects buzzed lazily, and the air grew thick and humid. Mark pointed out deer tracks, lectured Alex on wind direction, and tried to force a father-son bonding experience that felt hollow and false. Alex just nodded, his eyes scanning the trees, his mind replaying the image of the smooth, eyeless face at his window.

Then Mack’s behavior changed.

The dog was ranging ahead when he suddenly froze, his body rigid, his nose twitching at the air. A low whine escaped his throat.

"What is it, boy?" Mark whispered, raising the rifle slightly. "You got a scent?"

Mack didn't bark. He didn't bound forward as he usually did when he was on the trail of a squirrel or rabbit. Instead, he took a few hesitant steps, looked back at them with wide, uncertain eyes, and whined again. He was nervous. Scared.

"Go on, boy, get it," Mark urged, his frustration mounting.

Driven by a command he couldn't disobey, Mack reluctantly pushed forward, leading them off the faint deer trail and deeper into the undergrowth. He led them not towards game, but towards a smell—a coppery, foul scent that grew stronger with every step.

They broke into a small, unnatural clearing. The trees here were older, their branches gnarled and claw-like, and in the center stood a massive, lightning-scarred oak. Mack stood at the edge of the clearing, refusing to go any further, the fur on his back bristled.

Alex saw it first. Hanging from the lower branches of the oak, suspended by crude twine, were dozens of skinned rabbits. Their small, pink bodies were a grotesque parody of ornaments on a Christmas tree. Below them, on a large, flat rock at the base of the tree, several more were arranged in a precise, circular pattern. The ground was dark and sticky with dried blood.

"What in the hell…?" Mark breathed, his hunter’s bravado evaporating, replaced by pure disgust. "Some sick poacher… This is a trap site."

But it wasn't a trap site. Alex knew it instantly. This wasn’t for profit or sport. This was a ritual. An offering. His eyes were drawn to the trunk of the great oak. Carved deep into the bark, and painted over with fresh blood, was a symbol. A spiral that curled in on itself, but just before closing, it hooked sharply back, like a question mark folding into a fishhook. A closing eye.

"Dad," Alex whispered, his voice trembling. "Look."

Mark saw the symbol, and for the first time, a crack appeared in his wall of denial. His face went pale. This was deliberate, methodical, and deeply insane. It radiated a kind of ancient malice that had nothing to do with poachers.

The woods, which had been humming with insect life moments before, fell utterly, deathly silent. Not a bird chirped. Not a leaf stirred. The air became heavy, pressing in on them.

And then, a whisper.

It came from all around them, a dry, sibilant hiss that seemed to slither through the trees.

Aaaaalexxxxxx...

His name. It was whispering his name. He clapped his hands over his ears, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. "Did you hear that?"

Mark spun around, his rifle up, his eyes wide with a fear he could no longer hide. "Hear what? There's nothing—"

But he stopped, because they were no longer alone.

Standing at the far edge of the clearing, partially obscured by the shadows, was a man. He hadn’t been there a second ago. He didn't walk into the clearing; he was simply in it. He was dressed in a clean, dark suit that was utterly out of place in the humid forest. His posture was relaxed, his hands clasped behind his back.

But it was his face that made Alex’s heart stop. He was looking right at them, and he was smiling. It was the widest, most unnatural smile Alex had ever seen. It stretched his mouth from ear to ear, a fixed, predatory grin that showed too many teeth and held no warmth, no humanity at all. It was a mask of pure, joyous malice.

The man took a single, slow step forward into the light. The smile never wavered.

"Hello," the smiling man said, his voice calm and pleasant, a grotesque counterpoint to the horror of the scene. "Lovely day for it, isn't it?"

Mark’s hands tightened on his rifle, the barrel lifting to point directly at the man’s chest. The warning was clear. But the smiling man didn't even flinch. He just stood there, his smile fixed, his dark eyes empty of everything but a terrifying, predatory hunger. He was looking at them the way a scientist looks at insects pinned to a board.