Chapter 2: The Culling Green

Chapter 2: The Culling Green

The clatter of Lissa’s fallen putter echoed in the sudden, dreadful silence. All eyes were on her, a fragile silhouette against the stark, unnatural light of the first hole. She was shaking, her sobs coming in ragged, silent bursts as if she couldn't draw enough air to make a sound. The cheerful, looping jingle from the hidden speakers was the only noise, a maddeningly upbeat soundtrack to her terror.

“Now, now, no need for stage fright!” the tinny voice of Putt Head chirped from all around them. “It’s an easy Par 2. Just a gentle slope and a classic water hazard. You’ve got this!”

“Leave her alone!” Jon roared, stepping in front of Lissa protectively. He was a broad, solid wall of muscle and fury. “This is insane. We’re leaving. Right now.” He pointed his own putter towards the unmoving mascot. “You hear me, you freak in a costume?”

The mascot’s golf ball head tilted a fraction of an inch, a gesture of mock curiosity.

“Oh, but you can’t leave,” the voice explained, its tone as patient as a kindergarten teacher explaining a simple rule. “The game has already started. Forfeiting is against the rules. And we always follow the rules here at Putt Head’s.”

“To hell with your rules!” Jon shot back.

Leo’s gaze darted from the motionless mascot to the impenetrable darkness that ringed the course. That sound he’d heard earlier—that wet, dragging sound—it wasn't his imagination. It felt closer now, a low, predatory hum just at the edge of hearing. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. This wasn't a prank. This wasn't a lunatic in a suit. This was a cage, and something was waiting just outside the bars.

“Please, Jon, don’t make it angry,” Lissa whispered, her voice trembling. She bent down, her hand shaking so violently she could barely close her fingers around the grip of her putter. With a shuddering breath, she stood up and walked like a condemned prisoner toward the starting mat of Hole 1.

The hole was deceptively simple. A straight shot, about twenty feet, with a small, stagnant moat of black water guarding the cup. A miniature drawbridge lay across it. A sign, painted with a smiling cartoon frog, read: Ribbit-ing Challenge!

“That’a girl!” the voice cheered. “Just tap it in. Give it a little tappy. Tap-tap-taparoo!”

Lissa placed her ball on the worn patch of turf. She tried to line up the shot, but her entire body was convulsing with fear. Tears streamed down her face, catching the garish light. Kate made a move to go to her, but Aaron grabbed her arm, his face pale and slick with sweat. “Don’t,” he hissed. “Don’t draw its attention.”

With a choked sob, Lissa swung. It wasn’t a putt; it was a desperate, flailing jab. The club connected with the ball at a sickening angle. Instead of rolling toward the hole, the ball shot off to the right, bounced off the concrete curb with a sharp crack, and plopped into the murky water of the hazard.

BZZZZT!

A harsh buzzer sound, like a wrong answer on a game show, blared from the speakers. The cheerful music cut out instantly.

“Oh dear,” the voice said, dripping with false sympathy. “That’s a one-stroke penalty. You’ve exceeded par. And you know what that means…”

The dragging, slithering sound exploded from the darkness beside the hole. It wasn't just a sound anymore. It was a presence—a churning, writhing horror moving with impossible speed. Before Lissa could even scream, multiple thick, glistening tendrils shot out of the black, wrapping around her ankles and waist. They were grey and slick, like unearthed worms the size of firehoses.

She let out a single, piercing shriek as she was yanked off her feet. Her putter flew from her hand, spinning through the air. The things pulled her, dragging her across the astroturf and over the concrete curb into the suffocating, absolute darkness beyond the lights. Her fingernails scraped uselessly at the ground, leaving four desperate, parallel lines in the grime.

And then she was gone. The slithering sound faded, and the only evidence she had ever been there were the scuff marks on the ground and her bright pink putter lying abandoned by the water hazard.

Silence. Heavy, absolute, and soul-crushing.

Kate let out a strangled gasp, burying her face in Aaron’s shoulder. Aaron stood frozen, his glasses askew, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream.

Leo felt a cold wave of nausea wash over him. His mind, usually a fortress of sarcastic detachment, was completely blank. He just stared at the spot where Lissa had vanished, unable to process the sheer, brutal finality of it.

But Jon’s shock lasted only a second before it detonated into pure, unrestrained rage. A primal roar tore from his throat. “LISSA!”

He turned, his eyes blazing with a grief so profound it had become incandescent fury. He fixed his gaze on the silent, watching mascot. “YOU!” he bellowed, his voice cracking. “YOU BASTARD!”

With another guttural scream, Jon charged. He raised his blue putter high over his head, swinging it like a battle-axe. He was a force of nature, a blur of motion fueled by righteous vengeance. He closed the distance in three powerful strides and brought the metal club down with all his might directly onto Putt Head’s spherical, dimpled face.

The sound was a deafening CLANG of metal on something impossibly hard.

The putter bent into a useless U-shape. Jon stumbled back, his hands vibrating from the shock of the impact. He stared at the mascot in disbelief.

There wasn't a scratch. Not a dent. Not a mark. Putt Head hadn’t even flinched. It just stood there, head still tilted, its black, empty eyes seeming to mock him.

“Temper, temper,” the tinny voice chided softly from the speakers. “Attacking the staff is a serious infraction. That’s another penalty.”

Before Jon could react, the mascot moved. It wasn't human movement. It was instantaneous. One moment its arm was at its side; the next, it was extended, the white-gloved hand clamped around Jon’s throat. Jon’s eyes bulged. He clawed at the hand, but it was like clawing at steel.

With a casual, effortless motion, Putt Head lifted Jon a full foot off the ground. Jon’s legs kicked uselessly, his choked gasps the only sound in the night.

The mascot’s other hand came up, holding its own pristine, yellow putter. It moved with a slow, deliberate grace, bringing the head of the club up to Jon’s face.

“Fore!” the voice sang out with glee.

Putt Head swung.

It wasn’t a tap. It was a full, brutal, golfer’s swing. The sound was not a clang this time. It was a sickening, wet crunch, like a watermelon dropped from a great height. Jon’s body went limp. The mascot held him there for a moment longer before casually dropping his broken form to the ground like a sack of garbage. It lay in a heap, unnaturally still.

The mascot straightened its little bow tie, the yellow putter now stained with a dark, glistening red. It took one stiff step back to its original position beside the hole, once again the picture of inanimate stillness.

The silence that followed was worse than the screams. Leo stood rooted to the spot, his own rusty putter clutched in a death grip. His knuckles were white. He was staring at Jon's body, at the impossible angle of his head, and a single, terrifying thought cut through the fog of horror.

It wasn’t a person in a suit. It wasn’t a killer playing a sick game. It was the game itself. The park. The entity. It was a god, and they were nothing more than golf balls to be knocked around for its amusement.

The cheerful, out-of-tune jingle crackled back to life through the speakers, louder and more obnoxious than before.

“Well, that was an exciting start!” the voice of Putt Head boomed, its pep completely restored. “But the night is young, and we have seventeen holes to go! So, who’s next to test their mettle on the Culling Green? Let’s keep this game moving!”