Chapter 1: The Playlist of the Woods

The fluorescent lights in the data entry office buzzed like dying insects, casting their sickly glow over rows of identical cubicles. Leo Vance stared at his computer screen, the endless columns of numbers blurring together as his eyes strained against the artificial brightness. His fingers moved mechanically across the keyboard—click, type, tab, repeat. The same mind-numbing rhythm that had consumed the last three months of his life.

Customer ID: 78439. Balance: $2,847.33. Status: Active.

Another entry. Another meaningless data point in some corporate spreadsheet that would be forgotten by morning.

The clock in the bottom corner of his monitor read 4:47 PM. Thirteen minutes until freedom. Thirteen minutes until he could escape this beige purgatory and pretend, for a few precious hours, that his life had some semblance of meaning.

"Vance!" The voice of his supervisor, Mr. Henderson, cut through the office drone like a rusty blade. "My office. Now."

Leo's stomach dropped. Henderson only called people to his office for two reasons: promotions or terminations. Given Leo's recent performance—missed deadlines, frequent bathroom breaks that lasted longer than they should, and the growing stack of uncorrected errors on his desk—he doubted it was the former.

The walk to Henderson's office felt like a death march. His coworkers kept their eyes glued to their screens, but Leo could feel their curious stares burning into his back. Everyone knew what happened when Henderson called you in at the end of the day on a Friday.

"Close the door," Henderson said without looking up from his paperwork. The man was in his fifties, with thinning gray hair and the permanent scowl of someone who'd given up on life decades ago. "Sit down."

Leo obeyed, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the arms of the cheap plastic chair.

"I'll make this quick," Henderson continued, finally meeting Leo's eyes. "Your work has been subpar. Consistently. The Morrison account data you processed last week? Fourteen errors. Fourteen. That's a client we've had for eight years."

"I can do better—"

"No." Henderson held up a hand. "You can't. This isn't working out. We're letting you go, effective immediately. HR will have your final check ready Monday."

The words hit Leo like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to speak, to beg, to promise he'd improve, but Henderson was already looking back down at his papers.

"Security will escort you out. Clean out your desk."

Twenty minutes later, Leo sat in his beat-up Honda Civic in the parking lot, a cardboard box of personal belongings in the passenger seat. The box was pathetically light—a coffee mug, a small plant that was already dying, and a framed photo of his parents from before the divorce. Three months of his life reduced to objects that could fit in a shoebox.

His phone buzzed. A text from his landlord: Rent was due yesterday. Need payment by Monday or we'll have to discuss other options.

Leo stared at the message until the screen went black, his reflection staring back at him in the dark glass. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble from three days of not caring enough to shave, hair that looked like he'd been running his hands through it all day—which he had.

He needed to go somewhere. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere he could think without the weight of his failures pressing down on him like a concrete blanket.

The bridge.

Twenty-five minutes later, Leo turned off the main road onto the gravel path that led to his sanctuary. The sound of tires crunching over loose stones was oddly comforting, a familiar rhythm that meant escape was near. He'd discovered this place two years ago, back when he still worked at the smoke shop and spent his lunch breaks driving aimlessly through the industrial outskirts of town.

The path wound through a stand of pine trees before opening into a small clearing. Ahead, the skeletal remains of an old railroad bridge stretched across a shallow ravine. The concrete supports were still intact, but the rails and wooden ties had been removed decades ago, leaving behind a bizarre monument to forgotten infrastructure.

Behind the bridge, maybe fifty yards back through the trees, the electrical substation hummed with constant energy. Leo had grown to find the sound oddly soothing—a mechanical lullaby that meant he was far enough from civilization to breathe freely.

He parked at the edge of the clearing and killed the engine. Silence rushed in, broken only by the distant electrical hum and the rustling of leaves in the evening breeze. Leo grabbed his phone and a half-empty pack of cigarettes from the center console, then made his way to his usual spot—a section of the old bridge where the concrete formed a natural seat overlooking the ravine.

The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. Leo lit a cigarette and scrolled through his music app, selecting a playlist he'd labeled "Woods"—a collection of ambient electronic tracks that seemed to blend perfectly with the natural sounds of this place.

As the music began to flow through his earbuds, Leo felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. Here, surrounded by overgrown weeds and forgotten concrete, he could pretend that his problems didn't exist. Here, he was invisible to a world that had never seemed to notice him anyway.

The first track was a slow, atmospheric piece with layered synthesizers that reminded him of rainfall. He closed his eyes and let himself drift, the combination of nicotine and music creating a buffer between himself and reality.

But something was wrong.

Leo's eyes snapped open, his body suddenly alert. The music was still playing in his ears, but something had changed. The ambient sounds—the rustling leaves, the chirping of insects, the distant hum of the substation—had stopped.

Complete silence surrounded him, broken only by the electronic melody flowing through his earbuds. It was as if someone had reached out and turned down the volume on the entire world.

Leo pulled out his earbuds, and the absence of sound became even more pronounced. No wind. No insects. Even the electrical hum from the substation had ceased.

His skin prickled with an instinctive fear that seemed to rise from some primal part of his brain. Every nerve in his body screamed that something was fundamentally wrong with this silence.

Then he heard it.

Heavy breathing. Labored panting, like something had been running hard and was trying to catch its breath. The sound came from somewhere in the trees behind the substation, low and animalistic.

Leo stood slowly, his cigarette falling forgotten to the concrete. The panting continued, rhythmic and deliberate, getting closer.

Through the treeline, maybe forty yards away, something moved.

At first, Leo thought it might be a person—someone hunched over, perhaps injured or sick. But as his eyes adjusted to the growing darkness, the shape became clearer.

It was moving on all fours, but its limbs were wrong. Too long. Too angular. Its body was draped in what looked like tattered clothing that hung in dark strips, swaying as it moved with a fluid, predatory grace that no human could achieve.

The thing's head was low to the ground, as if it were following a scent. Its breathing echoed through the unnatural silence like a death rattle.

Leo's rational mind tried to process what he was seeing. A person in costume. Someone playing a prank. A optical illusion created by shadows and fear.

But when the creature raised its head and seemed to look directly at him, all rational thought fled.

Even from forty yards away, even in the fading light, Leo could feel its attention like a physical weight. It had found him.

The thing began to move toward the bridge, its elongated limbs carrying it across the ground with terrifying speed. It moved like liquid shadow, flowing between the trees with impossible silence.

Leo ran.

His feet pounded against the concrete as he sprinted toward his car, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might burst. Behind him, he could hear the creature's breathing getting closer, accompanied now by a sound like fingernails scraping against bark as it navigated through the trees.

Leo reached his Honda and fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking so violently he could barely get the door open. The creature burst from the treeline just as he threw himself into the driver's seat and slammed the door.

Through the windshield, Leo got his clearest look at the thing pursuing him.

It was human-shaped but wrong in every detail that mattered. Its skin was pale and stretched too tight over a skeletal frame, and the tattered clothing that covered it looked like burial shrouds. Its limbs bent at angles that should have been impossible, allowing it to move with a spider-like agility that made Leo's stomach turn.

But it was the breathing that would haunt him later. That heavy, labored panting that spoke of hunger and patience and terrible purpose.

The creature reached his car just as the engine turned over. Leo threw the Honda into reverse and floored the accelerator, spraying gravel as he backed away from the bridge. Through his rear window, he could see the thing standing where his car had been, its head tilted at an unnatural angle as it watched him flee.

Leo didn't slow down until he reached the main road, his entire body shaking with adrenaline and terror. In his rearview mirror, the gravel path disappeared into darkness, taking his sanctuary with it.

As he drove toward town, the normal sounds of the world gradually returned. Cars passing on the highway. The rumble of his own engine. The whisper of wind through his partially open window.

But the memory of that silence—that complete, unnatural absence of sound—clung to him like a shroud. And underneath it all, echoing in his mind like a promise, was the sound of heavy breathing in the dark.

Leo realized he was crying.