Chapter 1: The Shortcut

Chapter 1: The Shortcut

The final, sputtering cough of the engine was a death rattle in the 2 AM silence. Lisa Miller’s knuckles went white on the steering wheel as her battered sedan coasted to a dead stop, the headlights flickering once before plunging the world into the oppressive dark of a moonless country road.

“No, no, no,” she whispered, the words a useless prayer fogging the cold windshield. She tried the ignition again. A pathetic click was her only answer. The digital clock on the dash glowed a mocking 2:03 AM.

Her shift at the diner had run late, a tourist couple lingering over coffee, oblivious to the fact that they were the last lit window in all of Blackwood Creek. Now, she was paying the price. Stranded. Two miles from the edge of the village, and three miles from her small, rented house on the other side. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, a smell that was usually comforting but now felt suffocating.

Her desire was simple, primal: she just wanted to be home. She wanted to peel off her waitress uniform, which smelled faintly of grease and burnt sugar, and sink into her lumpy mattress until the sun came up.

The obstacle, however, was this dead hunk of metal and the miles of darkness separating her from that simple peace. Cell service was a joke out here. The signal died the moment you passed the old sawmill. Walking the winding road would take over an hour, an hour of listening to every rustle in the undergrowth, of jumping at every shadow cast by the towering pines.

But there was another way. A shortcut.

The thought surfaced reluctantly. A narrow deer trail that cut straight through Blackwood Forest, shaving the walk down to twenty minutes. She’d run it a thousand times as a kid, her laughter echoing through the sun-dappled trees as she raced her friends to Miller’s Pond. She knew every twist, every fallen log, every patch of slippery moss.

Lisa glanced at the impenetrable wall of trees lining the road. The forest at night was a different beast entirely. The familiar paths became tangled snares, and the friendly shadows twisted into monstrous shapes. Still, the thought of the long, exposed walk on the asphalt was somehow worse. On the road, you were a target. In the woods, you could hide.

“It’s fine,” she told herself, her voice a little too loud in the silent car. “You’ve done it a million times.”

With a decisive nod, she took her action. She grabbed her worn purse, locked the car out of habit, and plunged into the darkness. The air immediately grew colder under the dense canopy, the temperature dropping a good ten degrees. The crunch of her footsteps on the bed of pine needles was the only sound.

For the first five minutes, a strange calm settled over her. The path was just as she remembered it, a faint ribbon of packed earth winding between ancient oaks and pines. Her eyes adjusted, the darkness softening from an absolute black to a tapestry of deep blues and greys. This was her forest. She traced a faint, silvery line on her forearm with her thumb, a scar from a tumble she’d taken off the old hanging rock when she was ten. Even its memory was a part of this place.

Her goal felt closer now, the sanctuary of her home just on the other side of these woods.

Then she heard it.

A single, sharp snap.

The sound was distinct, close. Not the gentle rustle of a squirrel or the heavy shuffle of a deer. It was the clean, percussive crack of a dry twig under a heavy foot.

Lisa froze, her heart instantly hammering against her ribs. She strained her ears, listening to the chorus of crickets and the distant hoot of an owl. Nothing. She waited a full minute, her breath held tight in her chest, every nerve ending screaming.

It was just an animal, she rationalized, her own flaw surfacing to offer a comforting lie. A buck, maybe. You just startled it.

She forced her feet to move again, picking up her pace. Her practical waitress shoes, so comfortable on the diner’s linoleum floor, felt flimsy and useless on the uneven ground. She tried to place her steps silently, but the forest now seemed to amplify every sound she made. The swish of her jeans, the creak of her purse strap, the ragged rasp of her own breathing.

Snap.

This time it was closer, just off to her left. And it was followed by a faint, rhythmic thud… thud… thud. The sound of footsteps. Deliberate. Unhurried. Matching her pace.

The illusion of a stray animal shattered, replaced by the ice-cold certainty that she was being followed. The forest was no longer a familiar shortcut; it was a trap. This wasn't a random encounter. It felt like a hunt.

Panic, sharp and acidic, clawed its way up her throat. The desire to scream was a physical pressure in her lungs, but she bit it back. A scream would only tell him exactly where she was. Her only option was to run.

She abandoned all pretense of stealth and bolted. Branches whipped at her face, snagging her long, dark hair. Roots snaked out of the ground, trying to trip her. Her lungs burned, a stitch tightening in her side, but she didn't dare slow down. The footsteps behind her changed, the calm, deliberate pace replaced by a heavier, faster pursuit. He was running now, too.

The terror was absolute. It wasn’t the fear of a ghost or a monster from campfire stories. It was the visceral, animal fear of a predator hot on your heels. She didn't look back. She didn't want to see what was chasing her. She just pumped her arms and legs, fueled by a surge of pure adrenaline, her mind a white-hot blank of a single command: get home.

Suddenly, the trees thinned. A familiar, welcome sight pierced the gloom: the faint, yellow glow of the single streetlamp at the end of her lane. The result. She was out.

She burst from the treeline, stumbling onto the damp grass of her own back lawn. The house was only fifty yards away. Fifty yards of open ground. She felt terribly exposed, a stark silhouette against the distant light. The sounds of pursuit had stopped the moment she left the cover of the woods.

Her feet pounded across the lawn. The porch light she always left on was a beacon of hope. Her hands trembled violently as she fumbled in her purse for her keys, the metallic jingle deafeningly loud. The key scraped against the lock. For a horrifying second, it wouldn't turn.

Please, please, please…

With a final, desperate twist, the lock clicked open. She threw herself inside, slamming the heavy oak door behind her. The sound echoed through the small house like a gunshot. Her fingers, slick with sweat, fumbled with the deadbolt, sliding it home with a satisfying thunk. She leaned her full weight against the door, her chest heaving, listening.

The turning point came in the form of absolute silence. No footsteps on the lawn. No breathing on the other side of the door. Nothing. The crickets had started their chirping again, as if nothing had ever disturbed them.

Relief washed over her in a dizzying wave, so potent it made her knees weak