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The Takers

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The lake on the outskirts of town was the kind of place that always seemed half-forgotten, a strip of black water nestled between pine trees that whispered in the wind. The air there carried a damp chill, the kind that seeped through layers of clothing no matter the season. It was here, on a still night beneath a cloud-streaked moon, that the group of four friends decided to set up camp. They arrived with laughter in their voices and the quiet confidence of people who had known each other long enough to trust that nothing truly bad could happen while they were together. They had barely been there fifteen minutes when the mood began to shift. The tents went up quickly, the fire crackled to life, and the smell of pine needles mingled with the faint scent of smoke. Yet, in the middle of their easy chatter about their years of friendship and memories of reckless adventures, an unease crept into their bones. It started as a subtle sensation, the feeling of eyes on the back of the neck, the ...
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Finders Ain’t Keepers

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The gray woods of Lin stretched endlessly beneath a low, cloud-choked sky. The trees here were old impossibly old their gnarled roots coiling like petrified serpents through the damp earth. Moss draped the trunks in thick green shrouds, and every so often, the wind would thread through the canopy, carrying the smell of rain and something older, like stone dust and decay. Nora and Sam had been hiking since morning, their boots squelching in the soft soil, the only sound besides the faint trickle of water somewhere ahead. The trail was narrow and winding, forcing them to move single-file. Conversation had died out hours ago, replaced by a comfortable silence or at least it had been comfortable, until they reached the creek. The water was shallow, barely ankle deep, running over smooth stones. That was when a faint glint caught Nora’s eye. She slowed, squinting at the source. Beneath a tangle of wet leaves and silt, something gold winked back at her. “Hold up,” She murmured, crouching at ...
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Short Cut

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It was supposed to be a shortcut. Just a stretch of abandoned farmland between the road and our new house. Five minutes of walking, tops. Less if you didn’t stop to look at the broken scarecrows or rusted irrigation pipes sticking out of the ground like bones. My sister said it felt wrong from the first step. I said she was being dramatic. I wish I had listened. The grass was tall. Up to our shoulders in some places. Dry and brittle, but it whispered like it was alive. There were paths carved through it—too clean to be wind, too narrow for farm equipment. More like someone or something had been walking in circles. “Can we not go this way? It feels weird” Clara asked. “You’re twelve. Everything feels weird,” I told her. That was the last time she laughed that day. About halfway through, we saw the first one. A scarecrow, still standing somehow. Except it wasn’t like the ones in cartoons. No smile. No straw hat. Just a burlap sack over a human-shaped frame. Arms tied to a splintered cros...
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