it was a normal saturday morning uncle dave asked me to go spend the weekend with him
at the forest i only said yes becase dad told me so... that was an big mistake
[[Chapter one]]
Chapter 2: Whispers in the Walls
The forest didn’t creak.
It breathed.
Thomas realized this around 3:12 a.m., when the silence in the cabin twisted into a low hum — not from outside, but inside the walls. Not like plumbing or animals. Not like anything natural. It was slow, rhythmic, and wrong. Like someone sleeping badly behind the sheetrock.
He sat up in the wooden-framed bed. The blanket Uncle Dave had tossed him earlier lay crumpled on the floor. The lamp flickered. The spoon from his dream — still in his hoodie pocket — was cold now. He’d checked it five times. He had not imagined it.
The purple teddy bear was gone.
In its place, folded like a funeral flag on the end table, was a note.
The paper was stiff and yellow, but the ink bled like it had just been written:
You shouldn’t be here.
He wears your face now.
Don’t answer the voice in the static.
Don’t run at night.
He remembers.
—P
Thomas swallowed. The floor creaked. He stepped into the hallway, flashlight in hand. The shadows leaned inward as he passed. The cabin’s wooden beams groaned softly — too softly — like they didn’t want to be heard.
He made it to the kitchen.
The light over the stove blew out with a hiss.
The radio on the counter clicked on.
Not music.
Breathing.
Heavy, human, close.
It sounded like someone trying not to cry. Or trying not to scream.
He approached slowly.
The breathing stopped.
Then a voice came through the static — whisper-thin, impossible, familiar.
“Hey. It’s me. I’m lost. Can you help?”
Thomas blinked. He hadn’t said anything. But the voice was his.
Same tone. Same lilt. Same breath at the end of the sentence.
“…Dave?” it called again, still using his voice. “It’s Thomas.”
Then another voice. Deeper.
Also his.
“Yeah. I’m right here.”
Footsteps ran across the cabin roof.
He didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, Dave was sitting outside the cabin on a rotten bench with a half-smoked cigar and a shotgun across his lap. The lake beyond him was still and glassy.
“You look like hell,” Dave said.
Thomas didn’t answer.
“Bad dreams?”
Still nothing.
Dave glanced at him. “Well,” he said, lighting the cigar, “get used to it. This place eats quiet people first.”
Thomas turned back toward the cabin.
But as he reached for the door, he noticed his reflection in the window.
He wasn’t moving.
The reflection smiled.
[[cabin basement]]
[[chapter three]]
You opened The door to the basement groaned open as if it hadn’t been touched in decades — not old, just reluctant. Cold air flowed out like a held breath finally released.
Thomas took the stairs one at a time. Each creak echoed too long, like the wood was remembering something.
The light switch didn’t work.
But the flashlight in his hoodie pocket flickered on — not by his hand.
The beam cut through the dark, revealing a basement of stone walls and warped wooden shelves. Old camping gear. Molded books. A shattered fish tank.
And carvings.
Dozens of them. Etched into the walls and floor like warnings or prayers.
Some were symbols.
Others were names.
He crouched near one that read:
THOMAS — SCRUBBED TWICE
He reached out. The wood pulsed warm.
From behind the furnace, something shifted.
[[Investigate the furnace]]
[[Step back and leave the basement]]
[[try to read more of the carvings]]
(set: $inventory to (array:)) <!-- Empty array of items -->
:: Inventory
Your items:
(if: (length: $inventory) > 0)[
(for: each _item, ...$inventory)[
• ''_item's name'' — _item's desc<br>
[[Use _item's name->use shotgun]]
]
]
(else:)[
(italic: Your inventory is empty.)
]
[[Back
->the cabin]]
(set: $inventory to $inventory + (a: (dm: "name", "Teddy Bear", "desc", "A cute bear with a knife")))
(set: $inventory to $inventory + (a:
(dm: "name", "Shotgun", "desc", "An old but powerful shotgun"),
(dm: "name", "Rusted Axe", "desc", "A heavy axe, rusted with age"),
(dm: "name", "Ammo", "desc", "Shotgun shells, looks like 5 left")))
(set: $teddyPlaced to false)
(set: $sanity to 100)
(set: $sanityDecay to [(set: $sanity to $sanity - 1)(if: $sanity <= 0)[(goto: "Skinwalker Kill")]])
(set: $stamina to 100)
(set: $staminaMax to 100)
goatman fight asset
(set: $daveHP to 300)
(set: $goatmanHP to 800)
:: Sanity Check
(if: $sanity <= 0)[(goto: "Skinwalker Kill")]The truck growled its way up the winding gravel road, tires crunching over ancient stone and fallen needles. The trees pressed closer with every mile, leaning in like they were listening.
Thomas sat in the passenger seat, hoodie pulled up, watching the forest thicken through the cracked windshield. The sky had turned the color of fading bruises — too late for day, too early for full dark.
They rolled to a slow stop at the edge of a chained gate. A sign stood nearby, worn and split with age.
APPALACHIA MOUNTAIN WILDERNESS RESERVE
Est. ???
STAY ON THE TRAIL LEAVE NO ECHO DON’T LISTEN BACK
Thomas stared. “That’s not ominous at all.”
Uncle Dave grunted, peering out over the steering wheel. “Still looks about the same.”
“To you, maybe.”
A ranger booth sat slumped beside the trailhead, roof slightly caved in, wrapped in ivy. One window was lit — faint and yellow.
Inside, a man stood perfectly still. A ranger, probably. Hopefully.
His uniform looked like it had never been worn — stiff, crisp, ceremonial. The badge on his chest gleamed just long enough to be read through the windshield:
RANGER BARRY
13 YEARS ARMY
4 YEARS PARK SERVICE
STILL PUNCHING
He didn’t wave. He didn’t move.
Dave lowered his window. The mountain air was cool and dry, laced with sap, rust, and something that reminded Thomas of burnt sugar and wet copper.
The ranger leaned forward slowly, hands pressed to the glass.
“You boys here for the cabin?”
Dave nodded. “Yeah. Hunting trip.”
Barry didn’t smile. “Cabin’s still standing. Mostly.”
A pause. Then:
“If the trees start whistling, you didn’t hear it.”
He slid something through the drawer — a single folded paper.
Thomas picked it up. It was blank.
It pulsed in his hand, faintly warm.
The ranger stepped back, disappearing into shadow.
The gate creaked open by itself.
Neither of them said anything as Dave pulled the truck forward and they rolled past the threshold.
Behind them, the forest swallowed the booth whole
[[the forest]]
The road ended in gravel.
The truck rolled forward slowly, its tires crunching stones and pine needles, headlights stretching long between the trees.
Uncle Dave didn’t speak. Neither did the radio.
Thomas leaned against the window, watching the forest rise around them like a tide — dense, old, indifferent.
Branches clawed at the edges of the road, low and wet with fog. The further they drove, the less the world behind them seemed to matter. The reception vanished. The sky grew darker even though it wasn’t yet evening.
A thin deer watched from a ditch as they passed. It didn’t blink.
“Place always feel like this?” Thomas finally asked.
Dave took a sip from his thermos. “Like what?”
“Like it’s watching.”
Dave gave a dry chuckle. “If it is, it usually loses interest after a few days.”
The forest narrowed. Trees on both sides leaned together like gossiping strangers. The headlights flickered once, twice.
Then the cabin came into view — hunched low between the trees, wrapped in moss and quiet.
No lights. No welcome sign.
Just a carved wooden post nailed to a leaning rail:
IF YOU HEAR SCREAMING, DON’T CHECK.
IF YOU DON’T HEAR SCREAMING, CHECK LOUDER.
Dave killed the engine.
They sat in the silence.
The forest didn’t make a sound.
Thomas gripped the door handle.
“This is it?” he asked.
Dave nodded. “Home sweet cryptid cabin.”
They stepped out.
The air smelled like pine, old metal, and something faintly electric.
The forest infact didn’t stop watching.
[[chapter two]]Sanity: $sanity
(if: $sanity <= 30)[(text-style: "shudder")Your thoughts feel unstable...
]
:: Sanity UI
(set: _sanityColor to "#00ff00") <!-- Green -->
(set: _sanityText to "Stable")
(if: $sanity < 75)[
(set: _sanityColor to "#ffff00") <!-- Yellow -->
(set: _sanityText to "Unsettled")
]
(if: $sanity < 50)[
(set: _sanityColor to "#ffa500") <!-- Orange -->
(set: _sanityText to "Disturbed")
]
(if: $sanity < 25)[
(set: _sanityColor to "#ff0000") <!-- Red -->
(set: _sanityText to "Unstable")
]
(if: $sanity <= 10)[
(set: _sanityText to "INSANE")
]
''Sanity'': (text-colour:_sanityColor)[$sanity/100] — ''_sanityText''
|bar>[===[(text-colour:_sanityColor)[]](set: _barLength to (floor: $sanity
:: Stamina UI
(set: _staminaColor to "#00ff00")
(set: _staminaText to "Energetic")
(if: $stamina < 75)[
(set: _staminaColor to "#ffff00")
(set: _staminaText to "Tiring")
]
(if: $stamina < 50)[
(set: _staminaColor to "#ffa500")
(set: _staminaText to "Exhausted")
]
(if: $stamina < 25)[
(set: _staminaColor to "#ff0000")
(set: _staminaText to "Drained")
]
''Stamina'': (text-colour:_staminaColor)[$stamina / $staminaMax] — ''_staminaText''
|bar>[===[(text-colour:_staminaColor)[](repeat: _barLengthThe mirror above the fireplace glows softly in the dark cabin. You see yourself… but the smile doesn’t match.
A cold breeze brushes your neck. From the wall, a whisper:
“He’s waiting in the wall.”
What do you do?
[[mirror touch->mirror touch]]
[[Paul room]]
[[Leave room]]
[[Walk away without looking back -> less-i-know-the-better-ending]]
🪵 THOMAS’ BIZARRE TRIP
Chapter one: home sweet home
The last normal morning of Thomas’s life was quiet. No omens. No static. Just eggs, badly scrambled, and the creaking sound of the floorboard he kept forgetting to fix. He sat at the kitchen table, staring at his phone, ignoring half a dozen unread texts. Outside, the sky hung low and gray. His backpack leaned by the door like it wanted to run away without him. The air smelled faintly of dust, detergent, and something sweet he couldn’t place. The kind of smell that shows up right before a storm. A knock came. Twice. “Thomas!” came Uncle Dave’s voice from outside. “Truck’s running! If you’re not out here in thirty seconds I’m leaving without you and telling your mother you got eaten by an owl!” Thomas sighed. Finished his coffee. Burnt. Just like every morning this week. He grabbed his bag. One last glance at the living room — couch still unmade, photo frames still turned face-down, like he couldn’t bear to remember whatever used to live there. Then he stepped outside. Into the cool, waiting air. Dave leaned out of the truck window, sunglasses on despite the clouds. “Ready for nature, city boy?” Thomas climbed in. “No,” he said. “But I’m already buckled, so let’s pretend I am.” The truck rattled down the road, past the edge of the neighborhood, past the water tower, past everything Thomas didn’t have the energy to pack. As they crossed into the long stretch of trees, the signal dropped. And something old opened its eyes.
[[appalachia mountain park checkpoint]]Pinned to the corkboard are scraps of strange paper.
[Track the Whistling Man]
[Recover Goatm
Mr. M adjusted his collar, straightened his tie (which flickered slightly), and leaned close enough for Thomas to hear the static under his breath.
"Ah, you’re browsing. Brave."
He tapped one of the curled-up listings with a long, ink-black talon.
"Unfortunately, several positions have closed.
Temporarily. Or... cosmically."
He gestured without looking:
☐ Tree Translator
Requirements: Fluency in bark script or dream-sap.
Compensation: One truth the forest was trying to forget.
☐ Mirror Inventory Intern
Job Description: Count reflections. Report any that don’t belong.
Warning: Do not make eye contact with the glass after midnight.
☐ Echo Polisher
Duties: Wipe down leftover screams, lost names, and grief residue.
Tools Provided: Damp cloth, forgetfulness.
Notes: Emotional detachment preferred.
☐ Cryptid Conflict Mediator
Tasks: Resolve territorial disputes (e.g., Goatman vs. Flatwoods).
Benefit: One-time use of “Neutral Zone” amulet.
Hazard: Possibility of getting blamed by both parties.
☐ Signal Archivist (Closed)
Responsibilities: Listen to static.
When the voice speaks, record it.
When the voice says your name, stop recording.
☐ Janitorial Assistant to the Rake
Clean-up shift: 3:00 AM to 3:17 AM only.
Required: Silence.
Wages: Bone dust & blood coupons.
Status: Filled. (Position refuses to reopen.)
☐ Cannery Maintenance – VEGGIEMAN COOP (Pending Approval)
Maintain preservation tanks for Verry’s edible memory seeds.
Taste testing optional.
Warning: Do not ingest Seed #7 unless ready to confront parental trauma.
☐ Whisper Courier
Deliver encrypted regrets to unmarked doors in the forest.
Some whispers may return.
Use gloves.
Note: One recipient may be “you.”
☐ Thought Tax Auditor
Collect unpaid internal monologues.
All confiscated memories will be recycled into local ghosts.
Quota: 1 intrusive thought per shift.
☐ Vision Custodian
Verry requests help organizing Verdant Visions.
Job Perk: Glimpse someone else’s ending, once.
Downside: It might be yours.
Mr. M gave a gentle shrug, as if he didn’t make the rules — only polished them.
"But don’t worry. There’s always something open. Misery never takes a day off."
He stepped back into the flicker of the cabin’s shadow like a moth folding into a fold of cloth.
The board creaked softly.
Two postings had vanished entirely.
[[Return to forest→forest-hub]]
As your fingers reach the glass, your reflection grins wider. The smile splits too far. Its eyes roll upward.
A static pulse cracks the air. You see flashes:
- Your own face screaming
- A clawed hand dragging Paul
- A glowing symbol etched behind your eye
(set: $glitchedThomas to true)
(set: $sanity to $sanity - 10)
[[mirror-aftermath->stagger back]]You ignore the mirror and feel along the wood grain behind the fireplace. One panel gives. Behind it, a narrow seam — a hidden door.
It opens by itself.
(set: $paulAware to true)
→ [[Search wall]]You back toward the hallway. But something creaks behind you.
A reflection walks out of the mirror.
It’s you.
It blinks in sync with you, then slowly goes out of sync.
You hear it whisper:
“I’m you. You just don’t remember.”
[[Run out the door ->run-from-it]]The secret panel creaked open with all the subtlety of a coffin lid. Behind it: darkness, cobwebs, and a definite smell of regret.
Thomas sighed. “Yup. This is how people die in horror movies.”
He stepped inside anyway.
The hidden room was circular, cramped, and trying very hard to be dramatic. Ranger maps peeled off the walls like old skin. Melted candles drooped over rusted nails. A shattered grandfather clock clicked backwards every few seconds, just to be difficult.
And in the center of the room, floating several inches above a dusty camp chair — a ghost.
Pale, see-through, gently flickering like a busted VHS tape. The man wore half a ranger uniform and all of a bad mood.
“You must be Paul,” Thomas said. “Nice… spectral flicker effect.”
The ghost turned.
“You’re not him,” he said flatly. “But you wear his shadow.”
“Okay. Not ominous at all,” Thomas muttered.
Paul drifted toward the wall and gestured to the carvings: dozens of names etched in uneven rows. Some were crossed out. One looked like it had been gnawed.
Paul pointed to one name glowing faintly:
THOMAS
“Is that me?” Thomas asked. “Or one of the temu versions?”
Paul didn’t laugh.
Figures.
“He made you real,” the ghost said. “Just like me.”
Thomas tilted his head. “Who’s he?”
Paul stared blankly. “The one who hums in your sleep.”
The room got colder.
Thomas instinctively pulled his hoodie tighter, as if polyester could defend against existential dread.
Paul hovered by a cracked mirror in the corner, half-covered by a dusty towel.
“He can still see you,” Paul said, voice echoing slightly.
“Through the mirror?” Thomas asked. “Of course he can. Why wouldn’t a haunted mirror be involved?”
Paul’s form began to fade. “You’ll remember… or you won’t.”
The candles flickered once — not out, just insulted.
Thomas backed toward the exit. “Okay, great. Haunted exposition room complete. Time to go not die.”
The hidden panel opened again without his help.
Which was both polite and unsettling.Thomas turned and sprinted down the hallway. The lights stretched long and thin behind him.
But he heard no footsteps.
Only breathing.
Not his.
Every mirror he passed showed it — the other him — walking calmly.
He didn’t stop until he slammed the bedroom door behind him and fell onto the bed, gasping.
No one followed.
But in the reflection on the blank TV screen, something watched from just out of frame.
[[chapter four]]It looked older than the rest. Deeper. Like the wood had grown around the words.
He read aloud, barely above a whisper.
❝ One will walk with shadows in his mouth.
One will sell truth for teeth.
One will whistle back and be heard.
One will feed the woods what it wants.
One will never leave the house.
One will burn, and laugh doing it.
One will listen too closely.
One will carry what should not be carried.
One will tear the world and stitch it again.
And one — one will be remembered, or not at all. ❞
Thomas stepped back. The words didn’t sound like his voice when he said them. And when he looked again, some lines had shifted.
A few of the phrases flickered, just for a moment — like they wanted to be read again differently.
He didn’t know who they referred to.
But some part of him already did.
Behind him, something let out a breath that wasn’t his.Thomas knelt down beside the carvings, running his fingers just above the surface of the wood without touching it. The basement smelled like dust, wax, and something faintly organic — like sap that had soured.
The markings weren’t random. Not scratches. Not vandalism.
They were names.
Hundreds of them.
Some he recognized. VESS. DAVE. PAUL. The letters were carved in deep, like they were meant to last forever.
Others were unfamiliar: AURORA. LARK. M. The last one pulsed faintly under his eyes, almost as if it was vibrating against the grain.
But it was the final name that made him freeze:
THOMAS
Not just his name. His full name. First, middle, last.
And below it — small, jagged, almost hesitant — was a single word etched in a different hand:
SCRUBBED
He stared at it, pulse climbing in his throat.
Before he could blink, the basement light flickered, even though no light had been on to begin with. The room flashed cold.
And then he saw it.
Just for a second.
A mirrored silhouette crouched in the corner. His shape, but wrong. Limbs too long, reflection too dark, teeth where the eyes should be.
Gone before he could even scream.
Something scratched behind the furnace.
Thomas stood up fast.
Too fast.
His head spun. The name still burned behind his eyes.
No answers came.
Only the echo of something whispering from the wood:
“Only what’s remembered remains.”
[[go back ->cabin basement]]Thomas gave the blinking box, the mouthy furnace, and the carvings exactly one more second of his attention.
“Yeah… no thanks,” he said, already halfway up the stairs.
The wood groaned under his feet like it wanted to file a complaint.
The basement door swung shut behind him — not fast, not aggressive. Just disappointed. Like a ghost dad watching him walk away from a legacy.
Click.
Locked. From the inside.
Thomas blinked. “Okay. We’re doing poltergeist logic now. Noted.”
He took a deep breath, shook the dust off his hoodie, and turned toward the cabin proper.
Everything smelled faintly of pine, old socks, and dread.
Back to normal.
[[Cabin]]The door creaked shut behind Thomas.
For the first time in hours, the forest was on the other side of the walls.
The cabin groaned softly in its bones — not angry, not haunted, just… settling. The fire in the hearth was low but alive. Someone had restacked the logs by the back door. There was even a warm mug on the table, faint steam still curling from the rim.
Thomas didn’t remember making it.
The mirror in the hallway was quiet.
For now.
This place wasn’t safe. But it was stable. A pocket of breathing room.
Here, he could think.
Here, he could plan.
[[chapter three]]Thomas hit the floor like a sack of regret and plywood.
His back slammed against the cold cabin boards, heartbeat pounding in his ears like a bad drum solo. For a few seconds, everything was static. Not metaphorically — actual static, like an old TV screen inside his skull.
When his vision cleared, the mirror was still there.
Normal.
Untouched.
Which was the most suspicious thing about it.
He stared. His reflection stared back. Same face. Same tired hoodie. No glitch. No teeth-for-eyes monster. No... smile.
That was worse.
“Cool,” Thomas muttered, still on the floor. “Absolutely fine. Just hallucinated my own doppelgänger grinning like a taxidermy ad. Totally normal woods trip.”
He sat up, spine popping in protest.
The mirror didn’t flicker. The room didn’t whisper.
Which, for this cabin, felt like a trap.
As he got to his feet, the air felt heavier. Like the room was holding its breath.
From somewhere down the hall, a faint voice:
"You touched it.”
Thomas froze.
It was whisper-thin, like paper tearing. And not his voice.
"Now he knows."
Thomas looked slowly back at the mirror.
His reflection was gone.
[[Get the hell out -> mirror-aftermath pt2]]Thomas didn’t run.
He walked.
Quickly.
Not because he wasn’t terrified — he was absolutely, cosmically, bone-deep horrified — but because running in horror stories never helped anyone. Running meant something chased you.
He wasn’t about to give the mirror that satisfaction.
He stepped back into the main cabin hall. The air had changed.
The fireplace was out, even though he hadn't touched it. The rocking chair had moved six inches to the left. The floor creaked behind him even though he wasn’t stepping.
Yep. All perfectly not okay.
He passed the couch.
The cushions were flipped — wrong side up — and the coffee mug Dave had left out was gone. Either the ghost was cleaning up, or something was rewriting the cabin when he wasn’t looking.
He tried to breathe. Tried to ground himself.
This was still the same room. The same crooked walls. The same smell of pine and... something faintly coppery.
He found the kitchen lamp and turned it on. It buzzed like a nervous fly.
Then he sat.
At the table. In a lopsided wooden chair that groaned under his weight like it, too, had seen something.
He stared down at the wood grain.
“I’m not crazy,” he told it.
The chair didn’t disagree.
Somewhere behind the walls, something whispered again.
It almost sounded like his voice.
[[Look for Dave]]Thomas shouldn’t have gone looking for Uncle Dave.
That was his first mistake.
The trail past the broken fence dipped into a shallow ravine where trees leaned too close and the air smelled like rusted hooks and river rot. It hadn't rained, but the path squelched underfoot like it had soaked in someone else's memory.
He spotted the beer can first. Still cold. Still fizzing.
Then came the voice.
“That’s my thermos, you trout-faced liar!”
Thomas ducked under a branch and nearly tripped over a sun-bleached tacklebox.
[[Fisherman clearing ->look for Dave pt2]]Thomas followed the sound of swearing and snapping branches down the slope, flashlight flickering with each breath.
The trail opened into a shallow clearing — damp, half-flooded, and thick with mist. A broken cooler lay open beside the creek, leaking beer and blood in equal measure.
Uncle Dave stood in the center, boots planted wide, a cracked fishing rod gripped like a sword.
Across from him: something huge. Something wrong.
It stood upright, but not human. Antlers twisted from its head like driftwood. Its eyes glowed faintly beneath the brim of a moss-covered bucket hat. A fish hook the size of a scythe swung loosely from one clawed hand.
It wore hip waders, a flannel vest, and a necklace of snapped lures.
“You left me,” it said, voice sloshing like water inside lungs. “At the dam. With the screaming minnows.”
Dave huffed. “You bit me during weigh-in.”
“You filleted my last memory.”
Thomas didn’t move. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I don’t even fish and I know this is unresolvable trauma.”
The Goatman turned toward him. The hook swung slowly.
“You don’t belong here,” he said. “But you came anyway. That means something.”
Thomas swallowed. “I came to find my uncle.”
“You found something else.”
The Goatman reached down into the water and pulled up a glimmering shape — his hook — now gleaming like a key.
“Stories end in many ways. Some are loud. Some are quiet. Some sink beneath the stream.”
He held the hook out, point-down.
“Take it,” he said. “Trade your ending for mine. You walk into stillness, and no one follows.”
Dave stepped forward. “Don’t.”
“Shut up,” said the Goatman.
“No really,” Dave said. “Don’t shut up. But also don’t take the hook.”
The clearing pulsed like breath.
The water whispered.
The forest leaned closer.
What does Thomas do?
[[Take the hook]]
[[Refuse and walk away]]Thomas stepped forward. The hook felt warm. Heavy.
As soon as he touched it, the clearing shifted — like the air had been holding its breath. Time unraveled at the corners.
The Goatman smiled, just once. Sadly.
“You’ll sleep now,” he said. “And the river will forget you.”
The mist rose.
Thomas didn’t feel the cold.
His last thought was of the mirror.
It never reflected this.
[[ending reveal ->still Waters]]Thomas stepped back.
“No thanks,” he said. “I’ve got too much weird to live through already.”
The Goatman stared at him for a long moment. Then he sighed.
“The stream waits for those who need it. Not all drownings are loud.”
Then he faded into the trees.
Dave grabbed Thomas by the shoulder.
“Smart call,” he muttered. “You never trade with things that rhyme.”
They walked back in silence.
but the forest watched longer than usual.
[[chapter four]] ⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⊶ ✦ ⊷ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆
You take the hook.
You accept the current.
☒ YOUR JOURNEY ENDS NOT WITH FIRE BUT WITH SLOW DROWNING
☒ YOUR NAME WASHES DOWNSTREAM
☒ THE CABIN NEVER REMEMBERS YOU CAME
❝ You made the trade.
You wanted it quiet.
So now it’s always quiet. ❞
– The One in the Waders
↳ your face will not reflect again
↳ your story ends in reeds and bones
↳ your echo has been devoured
☼ The river folds you in.
☼ The bait is gone.
☼ You are still.
⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⊶ ✦ ⊷ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆
Ending Unlocked: STILL WATERS
“Not all endings make noise.”
[[notes from idk]]The cabin creaked like it was holding its breath.
Thomas sat by the fire, eyes fixed on the embers, mind still echoing from the mirror. He hadn’t touched it. He hadn’t needed to.
Something had already followed him out.
The air felt thinner. Like it had less time in it.
When he blinked, the walls shifted — not moved, but aged. Peeling, breathing, aware.
He closed his eyes for a second.
Just a second.
And the world changed.
He was dreaming.
But not asleep.
The cabin was gone.
He stood in an endless hallway — made of mirrors. Some cracked, some fogged, some pulsing faintly like they were alive.
Footsteps echoed ahead of him. Familiar.
He followed.
As he passed each mirror, a version of himself stared back.
Some smiled. Some screamed. One bled from the mouth and whispered something he couldn’t hear.
At the end of the hall was a door with no handle. Just a line of carved words:
“YOU ARE WHO WATCHES”
A faint hum pressed against his ears.
Like static.
Like breath on a phone line.
He reached for the door.
It opened on its own.
Inside: a flickering TV on a static channel.
A table with three chairs — one upright, one overturned, one on fire.
A figure sat in the flames.
Thomas couldn’t see its face. Only that it was watching him.
It pointed to the screen.
The static began to clear.
And he saw—
Himself.
Walking through the woods.
But the forest was upside down. The sky was beneath his feet. The moon had no face.
The figure spoke in a voice like broken glass sliding into water:
“You are the one with the name.
You are the one they remember.
You are the one they’ll try to take.”
Thomas blinked.
And the screen cracked.
So did the floor.
He fell.
He woke up in the cabin.
The fire had gone out.
The air smelled like ozone and wet leaves.
In his hand was a shard of mirror.
And in the firelight, carved into the wooden floor in front of him:
“CHOOSE NO ONE
OR LOSE YOURSELF”
[[chapter five]]
The fire was still out.
Thomas sat up slowly, the wooden shard in his hand glowing faintly with residual heat. The words on the floor had stopped glowing, but he could still feel them behind his eyes:
CHOOSE NO ONE
OR LOSE YOURSELF
His heartbeat had not yet caught up to the rest of him.
Something was different now.
The cabin was breathing again — not physically, but with presence. Like something had re-entered it while he slept.
Outside, the forest waited. Inside, something had changed.
He had to move. He had to choose.
Where would he begin?
[[Investigate the humming from the kitchen ->chapter-5-kitchen]]
.The humming was faint — tuneless, almost playful.
It stopped the moment Thomas stepped into the kitchen.
Everything was wrong by just a few inches. The mugs were upside down. The stove was on but had no heat. The refrigerator door was open, but there was no light inside — just folded paper.
Thomas pulled it out.
On it, written in blocky crayon letters:
DON’T TRUST WHAT COOKS
SOME THINGS CAN’T BE UNBOILED
The humming returned — from the sink this time.
Something moved in the drain.
[[Stick your hand in the sink]]
[[Back away and check the note again]] Thomas took a careful step back.
The humming behind him stopped again — instantly, like it had been caught listening.
He bent down. Picked up the crayon note from the floor.
It had changed again.
The handwriting was jagged now, like it had been scrawled by a shaking hand or a claw:
YOU HEARD IT.
YOU SMELLED IT.
YOU DIDN’T EAT IT.
GOOD.
The note turned warm in his fingers. Too warm. He dropped it.
It hit the floor — and burst into tiny, green sprigs of rosemary.
From the sink, something sighed. Relieved.
He didn’t stay to ask why.
Thomas walked out of the kitchen.
The walls exhaled.
The floor creaked once — approvingly.
And the hallway welcomed him back.
[[Continue to Chapter 6 -> chapter-6]]Thomas stared at the sink. The humming had stopped again — as if it knew he was listening.
He reached for the drain.
The second his fingers touched the metal rim, the garbage disposal roared to life — except there was no switch.
He yanked his hand back.
Too slow.
A sound burst up from the pipes. Not grinding. Not bubbling.
A voice.
“I cooked it wrong,” it whispered from inside. “It’s still screaming.”
Thomas staggered back. On the floor, the crayon note had changed.
Now it read: DON'T TURN AROUND.
He froze.
There were wet footprints behind him.
[[Turn around slowly]]
[[Run to the front door]]
[[Ask aloud: “What did you cook?”]]Thomas didn’t think.
Didn’t hesitate.
He bolted.
Down the hallway, past the creaking floorboards, past the cold mirror that still pulsed faintly in the corner of his vision.
He grabbed the front door handle — yanked.
It opened.
The forest greeted him.
Cold. Quiet. Unmoving.
He didn’t wait to question it. He stepped outside and shut the door behind him.
And this time… it stayed shut.
No creaking.
No shadows.
No reflections.
Just silence.
And Thomas kept walking.
Leaving the cabin. Leaving the story. Leaving everything he wasn’t ready to understand.
The sky above him flickered — like a radio tuning between stations.
And a voice followed, smooth and lazy:
“Well, well. Didn’t expect you to chicken out that fast.”
Mr. M’s voice, humming with static.
“You know, some people call this survival instinct. Me? I call it being a wuss.”
The sky chuckled. Faintly.
Then everything faded.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⊶ ✦ ⊷ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯Thomas didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Just slowly pivoted on his heel, heart hammering behind his teeth.
There was someone standing in the kitchen doorway.
No — not someone.
Something that looked like it had once been shaped from Thomas’s shadow. It dripped — but not liquid. More like memory. Like regret. It stood with its arms too long, and its mouth stitched shut with fishing wire.
In its hands was a pot.
A simple metal pot.
Steam drifted from the lid, carrying the same sweet smell he’d noticed this morning. The one he couldn’t place.
The thing tilted its head. Held out the pot.
On the side, in scratched lettering:
FORGIVE ME
Thomas couldn’t move.
The humming started again — not from the sink this time, but from the thing’s chest.
It opened its mouth.
The wire snapped.
“Eat,” it rasped. “Or I do.”
[[Take the pot]]
[[ch7]]
[[Back away — fast]]
Thomas didn’t turn around.
Didn’t step forward.
Just stared at the flickering kitchen light and said aloud, quietly:
“…What did you cook?”
Silence.
Then a shuffle behind him. A breath. And a voice that sounded far too much like his own, but hoarse — like it had been whispering recipes to the dark for too long.
“I cooked what you swallowed.”
Pause.
“I braised every word you didn’t say when it mattered. Roasted your polite regrets in their own oil. Stir-fried your guilt. Seasoned your denial.”
There was a metallic clink. A plate being set behind him.
“Served cold, of course. Like all your best emotions.”
The smell wafted up — lemon, rosemary, and something faintly... burned. Like toast left in too long. Or a friendship that ended without a reason.
The voice chuckled.
“I call it: ‘The Dish of Could-Have-Been.’ Pair it with silence. Or a nervous laugh.”
Thomas didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Because when he looked down, the kitchen tile had changed.
Into trail dust.
Into pine needles.
Into the forest again.
He turned — and the kitchen was gone.
[[Continue to Chapter 6 -> chapter-6]]Thomas didn’t want to take it.
But something in his hands did.
The pot was warm. Too warm. Not like fire — more like a body that shouldn’t be breathing anymore.
The lid was sealed with something soft and papery.
He peeled it off.
Inside: soup. Almost.
Chunks of something that looked like overcooked root vegetables — but pulsing, just faintly. Thin, cloudy broth. One object floating near the surface, half-submerged:
A key.
His house key.
The one he’d lost three months ago.
Except it was bent.
And gnawed.
Thomas looked up.
The figure was gone.
Only wet footprints remained, leading out the back door.
He looked down again.
The broth had cleared.
And he saw his own reflection in the pot — but it wasn’t mirroring him.
The reflected version was smiling.
Then the pot shattered.
No warning. No sound.
Just hot shards and liquid memory splashed across the floor.
From somewhere in the walls, a voice whispered:
“He forgives you.”
And then, just under his breath — in his own voice:
“But I won’t.”
[[Return to the main room]]
[[Check the hallway mirror]]
[[Follow the footprints]]
Thomas didn’t move. Didn’t turn around. But his voice found its way out, shaky but steady:
“…What did you cook?”
Silence.
Then, a sigh — behind him. Long. Exasperated.
“Honestly?” said a voice that sounded disturbingly like his own, but older and somehow judging. “A mess.”
There was a wet shuffling sound. Something set down a plate with the grace of a moody butler.
“I cooked the moment you said 'I’m fine' when you absolutely were not. I slow-roasted three years of emotional avoidance. Reduced two failed relationships into a balsamic glaze. Oh— and I flambéed that one time you ghosted your therapist. She deserved better.”
Thomas blinked.
The sink made a wheezing noise. Possibly judgmental.
The voice behind him continued, growing smug:
“It’s garnished with unresolved father issues and served on a bed of coping mechanisms. Gluten-free, of course.”
Something clinked softly — silverware, maybe. Or a bone.
“You’re welcome,” the voice added. “It’s your favorite: denial à la mode.”
Thomas dared a glance over his shoulder.
Steam rose from the plate.
The food looked… okay?
Suspiciously okay.
That was the worst part.
[[Sit down and taste it anyway]]
[[Say “I’m not hungry,” and mean it this time]]
[[Slowly back out of the kitchen like none of this ever happened]]Thomas didn’t wait.
He turned on his heel and bolted from the kitchen — knocking over a chair, slipping on the wet floor, heartbeat hammering like a warning bell.
The kitchen didn’t chase him.
But the humming followed.
Down the hall.
Up the walls.
Into the corners of his memory.
He didn’t stop to breathe.
Didn’t stop to think.
He just ran—
Until the door slammed shut behind him.
And the cabin was quiet again.
But not calm.
Never calm.
[[Continue to Chapter 6 -> chapter-6]]Thomas stepped away from the sink, leaving the strange humming behind him.
The kitchen didn’t argue.
Didn’t creak.
Didn’t grab.
It simply… watched.
He crossed the threshold back into the cabin’s main room, the soft tap of his footsteps the only sound. The air here was cooler — less charged. The fire hadn’t returned, but the shadows weren’t as deep.
He didn’t know what the thing in the kitchen wanted.
Maybe it didn’t either.
But he was done with it.
For now.
Somewhere behind him, a drawer closed itself.
Thomas didn’t turn around.
[[Continue to Chapter 6 -> chapter-6]]Thomas stepped quietly back into the hallway.
The kitchen behind him seemed to dim, like it was sulking.
At the far end of the corridor, the hallway mirror waited — just where it had always been.
It hadn’t cracked.
But it had changed.
His reflection wasn’t centered anymore. It stood slightly to the left, as if trying to step out of frame.
Thomas approached slowly.
His reflection blinked.
He hadn’t.
Then it mouthed something.
He couldn’t hear it. But he knew exactly what it said.
“Still hungry?”
The mirror fogged slightly — not from steam, but from breath.
Then cleared.
His reflection was normal again.
Too normal.
Thomas stepped back.
The mirror said nothing more.
[[Continue to Chapter 6 -> chapter-6]]The footprints led out the back door. Each step shimmered faintly, like they were more memory than water — already evaporating.
Thomas grabbed his coat from the chair, even though he didn’t remember taking it off.
He stepped outside.
The forest behind the cabin was somehow darker than before. Not nighttime — just heavier. As if the trees had thickened, closing ranks while he wasn’t looking.
He followed the trail.
No birds. No insects. Just breath. His own.
And then, up ahead — a clearing. Not natural. Not accidental.
At the center, a metal table.
Same pot.
Untouched. Undamaged. Still steaming.
A note rested beside it, folded precisely:
This Time, Finish It
He turned.
The figure was back — standing at the edge of the clearing. Not moving. Holding something.
Not a pot.
A mirror.
Not the mirror.
His mirror. From his childhood room. The one with the baseball team sticker and the little chip in the corner.
It tilted it toward him.
And he saw himself, again. Younger. Smiling.
Then screaming.
Then gone.
The wind picked up.
The trees leaned in.
The table began to shake.
And the pot — boiled.
Not from heat.
From memory.
[[Walk toward the table again]]
[[Step into t
[[Speak to the figure and ask: “Why me?”]]Thomas didn’t step away.
He stepped forward.
The clearing felt heavier with each footfall—like the trees were leaning in, listening.
The pot on the table steamed quietly, steady and patient. That same quiet, citrus-smoke scent filled the air. The figure holding the mirror didn’t move.
Thomas reached out, placing both hands on the edge of the metal table.
The metal was warm.
The pot’s lid lifted itself slowly.
Inside wasn’t stew anymore.
Inside was a mirror.
Perfectly still.
And reflected in the mirror—Thomas saw not himself, but every room he’d left behind. His house. The cabin. The road. Uncle Dave’s truck. Barry’s ranger station.
Places he’d already walked through.
Places he’d never walk back into.
A voice rippled up from the pot.
“You can’t unswallow memory.”
Thomas leaned closer. The surface of the mirror shimmered like hot oil.
And then it spoke again:
“Are you ready to finish the dish?”
[[continue on]]Thomas didn’t step closer.
Didn’t run.
He stood his ground and asked, quietly but firmly:
“…Why me?”
The figure at the edge of the clearing didn’t move. It held the mirror steady, its face still hidden in shadow and steam.
For a moment, there was no answer.
Then, the figure spoke. Its voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t harsh. It sounded like metal cooling in the dark:
“Because you’re the one that left the door open.”
Thomas frowned. “What door?”
The mirror flickered — showing, for a heartbeat, something he couldn’t quite see. A hallway. A light. His own hand reaching for a handle.
The voice continued:
“You stepped through once. Long ago. Before the cabin. Before the forest.”
The steam pulsed around the figure, shaping itself into silhouettes.
Not faces.
Not names.
Just suggestions of things Thomas hadn’t met yet.
Things waiting.
“You forgot,” the figure added. “We didn’t.”
The mirror folded back into nothing. The figure stepped away into the trees, vanishing like it had never been there.
The clearing grew still again.
And Thomas was alone.
[[Continue to Chapter 6 -> chapter-6]]Thomas sat down.
The chair sighed under him — not creaked, sighed. The plate steamed softly, like it had feelings.
He picked up the fork. It was warm. Too warm. The kind of warm you get when silverware has been pre-soaked in memory.
He cut a bite.
The meat (was it meat?) was perfectly tender. Seasoned. Balanced. Possibly judging him.
He chewed.
Once.
Twice.
Memory bloomed.
He was five, holding a balloon shaped like a trout. His uncle was laughing. There was a cotton candy vendor made of twigs and bees. A voice whispered: “You’ll forget this one day.”
He blinked back in the kitchen.
The plate was empty.
He didn’t remember finishing it.
Across the table sat a second plate — and a second Thomas.
That one was smiling.
“This is the version of you that learned how to talk about his feelings,” said a voice from the cupboard.
Thomas stood up so fast the chair vanished.
The second Thomas waved and disintegrated into spice dust.
The kitchen was quiet.
But something had changed.
[[Return to the main room ]]
[[Sit back down and ask for seconds (Memory Loop)]]
Thomas stood up slowly, his stomach twisting.
He looked at the plate — still steaming, still unsettlingly perfect.
The version of himself across the table raised an eyebrow, mid-toast.
“No,” Thomas said. Quiet. Firm. This time, with weight.
“I’m not hungry.”
The plate cracked — clean down the middle.
The chair behind him disappeared with a soft sigh.
And the other Thomas? Gone. Like he’d never been there at all.
No applause. No backlash.
Just… acceptance.
The lights dimmed. The steam faded.
And the kitchen let him leave.
He stepped into the hallway with a clear head and an odd aftertaste — like lemon, thyme, and quiet regret.
The door didn’t close behind him.
It simply vanished.
[[Continue to Chapter 6 -> chapter-6]]Thomas didn’t run.
He didn’t scream.
He just… backed away. Step by slow step, heart loud in his ears.
The plate didn’t follow.
The voice didn’t stop him.
The kitchen watched, but didn’t reach.
When he stepped into the hallway, the air changed — lighter, but sharper. Like someone had cracked a window in a dream and let in something colder.
The door to the kitchen shut behind him. On its own.
He didn’t look back.
He walked down the hall.
And the house walked with him.
[[Continue to Chapter 6 -> chapter-6]]Thomas pushed back from the table.
The chair didn’t move — it sank.
He stood. The plates were gone. The room smelled like lemon and ash.
All versions of himself had vanished.
But something remained.
He looked at his hands. Older. Then younger. Then not his.
The kitchen stretched — longer, narrower — until it became a hallway of doors that all opened into memories he no longer owned.
He forgot what he was trying to leave.
He forgot who walked in.
He forgot he had ever been hungry.
The lights flickered.
And he was gone.
[[BAD END: Erosion]]Thomas sat again.
“Just one more course,” he said — or thought — or didn’t.
The plate that appeared was flat, black, and perfectly round. A single bite rested at its center.
A version of himself leaned in from the other side of the table and whispered, “This one’s you.”
He ate it.
The room applauded.
Then the table swallowed him.
His name was chewed. His shape was stirred. His memories reduced down to a thick reduction and poured into a vial labeled: “Seasoning.”
The next guest would use him on their regrets.
He never left the kitchen.
But the kitchen left him.
[[BAD END: Overfed]]
⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⊶ ✦ ⊷ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆
You stood up.
You remembered yourself.
And then you didn’t.
☒ You walked away.
☒ But the table was part of you.
☒ You left the food. But took the forgetting.
Time unspooled.
Your name softened at the edges.
The mirror no longer recognizes you.
The cabin never mentions your visit.
📄 BAD END UNLOCKED: EROSION
You left the loop.
But the loop did not leave you.
⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⊶ ✦ ⊷ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆
[[notes from idk]]⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⊶ ✦ ⊷ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆
You stayed.
You swallowed yourself.
You became flavor.
☒ You asked for more.
☒ And gave away all that was left.
☒ Now you’re just seasoning for someone else’s grief.
The chair is full again.
The next version of you sits down.
He doesn’t recognize the spice.
🍴 BAD END UNLOCKED: OVERFED
You fed the hunger.
And became part of the recipe.
⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⊶ ✦ ⊷ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆
[[notes from idk]]Here’s a structured and focused version of
Thomas stepped outside the cabin.
The air had changed. He didn’t know how he knew — only that the weight pressing against his ribs was different now. Colder. Sharper.
The sky was a dull gray bruise.
The trees leaned closer than before. Not menacing, just curious. Listening.
Uncle Dave’s truck was still parked where they’d left it. But there was no sign of Dave.
And the forest path no longer pointed one way.
Now there were three.
Each trail marked by something strange:
* A trail of silver feathers scattered along the dirt.
* Deep claw marks carved into the trunks, fresh.
* A set of footprints leading off the path — too large to be human.
Thomas didn’t know which was safer.
Maybe none of them were.
[[Follow the feather trail]]
[[Follow the claw-marked path]]
[[follow the oversized footprints]]Thomas didn’t reach for the mirror.
Didn’t back away slowly.
Didn’t hesitate.
He just… turned around.
One footstep. Then another.
Out of the hallway. Out of the cabin.
The door shut behind him on its own.
The forest didn’t chase him.
The sky stayed quiet.
He walked.
And with every step, the air felt lighter.
The less he knew, the better.
The less he remembered, the safer it all seemed.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⊶ ✦ ⊷ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
[[notes from idk]]Thomas didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
The mirror shimmered again, rippling like the surface of a pond.
For a moment, it reflected the sky. Then the trees. Then Thomas again—except this time, his reflection wasn’t alone.
Behind him, in the mirror’s image, a few quiet figures stood:
Barry.
Goatman.
Mr. M.
The shapes were familiar now.
But behind them... shadows.
Half-seen outlines. Blurred faces. Names he hadn’t learned yet. Places he hadn’t been.
All waiting.
Watching.
Thomas blinked.
And the pot was empty.
The figure holding the mirror lowered its hands. The mirror folded in on itself, becoming nothing more than steam.
No words. No judgment. Just... silence.
Thomas stepped back from the table.
The clearing faded behind him like a memory.
When he looked down at his hands, they were warm—but clean.
Like he’d been holding something hot.
And finally let it go.
[[Continue to Chapter 6 -> chapter-6]]Thomas stepped carefully onto the path marked by silver feathers.
Each one glinted faintly in the half-light, almost weightless — like moonlight caught on the ground.
The forest was quieter here.
No birds. No rustling.
Just wind, and his own footsteps.
The deeper he walked, the more the trees seemed to lean inward. Not in menace.
In expectation.
Ahead, the air shimmered. The sky felt closer.
And then, standing in the middle of the trail, perfectly still:
The Flatwoods Monster.
Its tall frame glowed faintly under the canopy. Spade-shaped head. Arms long and steady at its sides. Eyes like hovering stars.
It raised one arm. Pointed deeper into the forest.
A single gesture.
Not a threat.
A summons.
Thomas swallowed.
And stepped forward.
[[Continue ->feather-trail-2]]Thomas chose the claw-marked path.
Every tree he passed bore fresh gashes — wide, deep, too clean to be animal.
The smell in the air shifted. Copper. Pine sap. Something colder beneath it all.
Then — a shape between the trees.
Seven feet tall. Antlers brushing bark. Bones too sharp beneath papery skin.
Wendell.
The Wendigo.
Thomas froze.
Wendell stood perfectly still, steam curling from his breath.
Watching.
Waiting.
[[Keep walking slowly]]
[[Run away ->wuss-ending-wendell]]Thomas took a steady breath.
He forced his feet forward, one slow step at a time.
The cold air bit at his skin, but his resolve burned hotter.
Wendell’s gaze never left him — patient, unreadable, waiting.
The forest seemed to hold its breath.
A branch snapped behind Thomas.
He didn’t flinch.
Instead, he slowed.
And the Wendigo shifted — almost imperceptibly.
The shadows thickened.
Thomas’s heartbeat steadied.
For now, Wendell simply watched.
The path ahead split again.
To the left, the trees grew thinner — a faint light flickered.
To the right, darkness deepened, with low growls echoing faintly.
[[Take the left path toward the light]]
[[Take the right path into the dark]]
Thomas ran.
Branches slapped his arms. Roots clawed at his boots.
He didn’t look back — not once.
He didn’t stop until the claw marks were gone, the trees thinned, and the world felt just a little smaller.
Then came the voice.
From nowhere.
From everywhere.
"Aw, really?"
Mr. M’s voice, sharp and smug, cut through the air like a boot through fresh snow.
"You met Wendell and bolted? Didn’t even wave? Tsk-tsk. You’re never gonna earn a spine at this rate.”
Laughter echoed overhead — dry and static-laced.
"Next time, bring a sandwich. Or a backbone."
The sound faded. The woods fell silent.
Thomas stood alone, halfway back to the cabin.
He didn’t feel safer.
Just unfinished.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⊶ ✦ ⊷ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
You fled. That’s okay. Not everyone’s built for antlers and ice.
[[notes from idk]]Thomas stepped carefully toward the thinner trees. Wendell didn’t follow—just watched until the forest swallowed him from sight.
The cold gave way to a strange warmth.
Ahead, through a gap in the pines, golden light flickered.
A campfire.
Surrounded by stones. Neatly arranged. Not abandoned.
Sitting beside it on a flat rock was Vess.
The Cryptid Nerd.
Her boots were muddy, her notebook half-filled with scrawled notes. She didn’t flinch when Thomas stepped into view. Didn’t act surprised.
“You finally got here,” Vess said, not looking up from her pages.
She tapped her pen against the open flame.
“Hope you didn’t make eye contact with Wendell too long. Bad luck, that.”
Thomas sat down slowly.
He didn’t know what to say. But for now, the fire was enough.
[[Continue to Chapter 7 ->Ch7]]Thomas stepped toward the dark.
The growling grew louder.
Branches scraped against his jacket. Shadows pressed in tighter—until there was almost no trail left.
Then he saw them.
Eyes.
Six of them.
Watching from the black.
A low, distorted hum buzzed through the air.
The Whistling Man.
His form barely visible—tall, sharp-angled, coat flickering like static.
Thomas stood still.
The growls weren’t from Wendell this time.
They were coming from himself.
His breath fogged mirror-bright.
The Whistling Man raised one finger.
And whistled—a single, long note.
Thomas blinked.
The world inverted—light becoming lines, shadows becoming shapes.
Then everything snapped back.
He stood alone.
The trail was gone.
But he wasn’t lost.
Not entirely.
[[Continue to Chapter 7 ->Ch7]]Thomas stumbled through the undergrowth, branches clawing at his arms. The trees thinned, revealing an unnatural structure embedded in the hillside—angular, rusted, and humming faintly with power.
A steel hatch stood open, exhaling cold air laced with ozone and burnt wires.
Thomas stepped inside.
The narrow corridor flickered with faulty lights. On the walls: faded posters of technological optimism—robotic assistants, clean energy, a bright future. Their edges curled and charred, as if history had tried to erase them.
At the end of the hall: a heavy vault door. Stenciled letters read:
WHITAKER LABORATORY – DEPARTMENT X
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
PROPERTY OF DR. H.W. WHITAKER
Thomas swallowed.
The name Whitaker hit him like a punch.
Vess’s name.
Her dad.
He pushed the door open.
Inside: a vast lab, decaying but active. Monitors blinked. Consoles buzzed softly. Test tubes littered tables, and at the center—an operating pod, cracked open like a metal coffin.
A plaque on the nearby console read:
PROJECT S.H.R.I.M.P.
(Synthetic Humanoid for Reconnaissance, Infiltration, Maintenance, and Preservation)
Above it: a corkboard covered in red string and documents.
At the center, pinned like a trophy:
PHOTO – SUBJECT 1X
Captured: May 2014
Status: Contained. Uncooperative. Shows signs of higher reasoning.
Notes: Dangerous. Unnatural. Possible guardian protocol candidate?
Thomas scanned the other notes.
One word kept reappearing in angry ink:
MALWERE
Suddenly, a low whir echoed from the intercom. A distorted voice broke through:
“Welcome... test subject.”
A brief pause. Then a laugh—dry, clinical, familiar.
“I see you’ve found my legacy.”
The lights above Thomas buzzed brighter.
“You may call me Dr. H.W.”
[[Continue -> chapter-7-whitaker-speaks]]The trees changed.
Not visibly. Not suddenly.
But Thomas felt it in his bones — the temperature shifting, the way light folded between the branches.
Every few feet, another feather.
Some tangled in bark.
Some floating, mid-air.
None of them moved in the wind.
The forest had gone still in a different way now. Like it was holding its breath.
Then he saw the first mark.
A claw-gouge down the side of an oak. Fresh. Splintered.
Another.
Then more — crossing the feather path.
Something else had been here.
Was still here.
Thomas knelt beside the gouges.
There were no footprints.
Just deep, deliberate claw trails. And the scent of iron and ash.
Ahead, the air trembled.
And Thomas wasn’t alone anymore.
[[Continue ->feather-trail-3]]At first, it was only a shape between the trees.
Tall. Thin. Flickering like heat haze.
Then the smell hit — burnt cedar and something else.
The Skinwalker.
It stepped through the fog, antlers scraping the low branches. Its face flickered: human, wolf, deer, none of the above.
It didn’t howl. It didn’t roar.
It just watched Thomas with those unreadable, split-shadow eyes.
And then—
A pulse of light from behind him.
Thomas turned.
The Flatwoods Monster stood at the edge of the clearing now. Still. Towering. Its glow pulsed rhythmically like a lighthouse — faint… then sharp.
The two cryptids faced each other.
Thomas realized he’d walked straight between them.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
The trees bent.
The sky flickered.
And the clearing was no longer silent.
It was waiting.
[[Continue ->feather-trail-4]]The clearing held its breath.
The sky flickered in and out of color: gray, green, pitch black.
Then, the Flatwoods Monster spoke.
Its voice wasn’t made of words — not exactly. It rang through Thomas’s head like a radio signal tuning itself. Clear. Precise.
“You trespass again.”
The Skinwalker’s voice followed—cracked, layered, human and inhuman at once.
“This forest remembers me. It always has.”
The Flatwoods Monster’s glow sharpened.
“You broke the pact. Long ago. You bled on old ground. You called the hunger.”
The Skinwalker stepped closer, antlers tilting.
“And you still guard what can’t be guarded.”
Thomas’s pulse thundered in his ears.
The two weren’t just enemies.
They were old. Older than the cabin. Older than Appalachia.
Whatever this was—it wasn’t just a fight. It was a ritual.
The Flatwoods Monster raised one arm.
The Skinwalker lowered its head.
“You shouldn’t be here, small one,” the Flatwoods Monster said—directly to Thomas this time.
“This is not your hunt.”
[[Stay anyway ->feather-trail-5]]
[[Step back ->Feather-trail-5-alt]]Thomas didn’t step back.
He stayed right where he was, boots planted firm in the dirt.
The air around him pulsed with heat and cold at once.
Every instinct screamed: move. Run. Leave.
But he didn’t.
The Skinwalker’s antlers tilted toward him—acknowledging, maybe approving.
The Flatwoods Monster’s glow dimmed slightly.
“You will witness,” the Monster said, voice like wind through radio static.
“Even if it breaks you.”
The Skinwalker’s form shifted—arms becoming claws, legs stretching backward like a deer’s, face flickering faster now.
Branches bent. The ground trembled.
But Thomas didn’t fall.
The clash began—not with noise, but with stillness breaking.
A ripple through the air, like glass cracking.
Light met shadow. Metal met bone.
And Thomas, in the center of it all, felt both watching him. As if this wasn’t just a fight.
It was a choice.
Who did he stand with?
[[Step toward the Flatwoods Monster ->feather-trail-6]]
[[Step toward the Skinwalker ->feather-trail-6b]]The cabin door shut quietly behind Thomas.
But this time, it wasn’t a boundary. It wasn’t a shelter. It was just another part of the woods.
He didn’t light the fire.
Didn’t check the mirror.
Didn’t need to.
Somewhere outside, the Skinwalker moved through the trees. And Thomas felt it like a second pulse under his own skin — not fear, not hunger. Just presence.
The silence wasn’t empty anymore.
It was full.
And it was waiting.
For whatever came next.
[[Continue to Chapter 7 ->Ch7]]Thomas stepped toward the Flatwoods Monster.
The moment his boot hit the ground in its direction, everything shifted.
The wind pulled sideways.
Colors bled upward into the sky.
Even the Skinwalker paused.
The Flatwoods Monster turned its gaze fully on Thomas now. Those bright, lidless eyes focused like twin headlights cutting through fog.
The signal in Thomas’s skull grew louder—words without sound:
"You choose balance."
The Skinwalker snarled, voice warping like radio static melting into a growl.
"Human fool."
But it didn’t strike.
Not yet.
The Flatwoods Monster raised both arms now, glow intensifying—casting Thomas in pale green-blue light.
And for the first time, Thomas felt it: not just heat or cold, but something older. Like he’d stepped into the middle of a storm he’d somehow been part of all along.
A low pulse of sound filled the clearing.
An invitation.
A warning.
A line drawn in the dirt.
[[Stand with Flatwoods Monster -> feather-trail-7]]Thomas hesitated—then stepped toward the Skinwalker.
The air around him thickened. Warmer. Heavy with the scent of iron and ash.
The Flatwoods Monster’s glow dimmed sharply.
“You choose hunger,” its voice echoed in Thomas’s skull. Not angry. Just... disappointed.
The Skinwalker’s form solidified as Thomas approached. Its limbs straightened. The flickering stopped.
For the first time, its face didn’t shift. It settled into something human-looking. Ragged. Pale. Eyes black and endless.
The Skinwalker tilted its head toward Thomas.
“Good,” it rasped. “You understand.”
The forest bent.
Branches snapped inward.
The Flatwoods Monster didn’t move again.
It simply faded.
Light curling inward until nothing was left but shadow and sky.
Thomas felt the ground steady beneath his boots.
Felt the pull in his chest.
The Skinwalker stepped back once.
Inviting.
Expecting.
[[Continue ->feather-trail-7b]]Thomas didn’t flinch. Didn’t second-guess.
He stepped fully into the glow, beside the Flatwoods Monster.
The forest shifted around them. Trees bending inward. Air warping like heat above asphalt.
The Skinwalker’s form twitched and fractured—its shape struggling to hold steady against the pulse of the Monster’s light.
“You choose balance,” the Flatwoods Monster’s signal repeated, louder this time. “Not hunger.”
The Skinwalker hissed. Voice slashed and layered:
“Humans break balance.”
Thomas clenched his fists, eyes locked on both figures. He didn’t speak, but the choice was made:
He wasn’t running.
The Flatwoods Monster raised both arms.
And the light cracked skyward—turning the clearing white.
For a breathless moment, there was no forest.
No sky.
No ground.
Just light.
When Thomas blinked, the Skinwalker was gone.
Not destroyed.
Not dead.
Just... elsewhere.
The glow dimmed.
The Flatwoods Monster lowered its arms.
It didn’t speak again.
It just looked at Thomas—then slowly stepped backward into the mist.
Leaving him alone.
[[Continue ->feather-trail-8]] The clearing was empty now.
No Flatwoods Monster.
No Skinwalker.
Just Thomas, standing alone beneath a sky that no longer flickered. The forest had quieted in a way that didn’t feel haunted anymore—just... still.
The silver feathers that had marked his path were gone.
The claw marks had faded from the trees.
It was as if nothing had happened.
Except Thomas knew it had.
His skin still felt warm where the light had touched him.
He took a slow breath. The air tasted clean now. Cooler. Easier.
Somewhere behind him, the trail back to the cabin waited.
For the first time, it didn’t feel like a trap.
It felt like a choice.
[[Return to the cabin ->feather-trail-9]]Thomas followed the path back.
No silver feathers. No claw marks.
But the trail was clearer now—like the woods had straightened their spine after holding a breath too long.
Every step felt lighter.
The sky didn’t flicker anymore.
When he reached the edge of the clearing near the cabin, he paused.
The cabin stood exactly as it had before: door shut, chimney cold, windows dark.
Except now\... there was something different.
A single silver feather resting on the porch railing.
And beside it, claw marks. Clean. Fresh. Cut into the wood, but not angry—almost deliberate. Like a signature.
Thomas stepped up.
Picked up the feather.
He didn’t know what it meant.
But he knew he wasn’t the same person who had left this porch an hour ago.
[[Enter the cabin ->feather-trail-10]]━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
T H O M A S ’ B I Z A R R E T R I P
────────────
E N D I N G: S K Y F I R E
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
```
You witnessed balance.
You stayed too long.
░█▀█░█▀█░█▀▄░█▀█
░█░█░█░█░█▀▄░█▀█
░▀▀▀░▀▀▀░▀░▀░▀░▀
```
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
[[notes from idk]]Thomas stepped fully into the Skinwalker’s shadow.
The air around him felt heavier now — not painful, just undeniable. Like carrying weight he’d already been holding his whole life but had never noticed until now.
The Skinwalker circled him once, slow and deliberate.
Its form flickered — but it no longer struggled to hold shape. Antlers sharp. Claws steady. A face halfway between human and void.
From the edges of the forest, the trees bent inward.
A pulse of sound thudded through Thomas’s chest. Not from outside — from inside him.
“You carry it already,” the Skinwalker said. Its voice cracked like frozen branches breaking. “The silence. The shadow. You chose.”
The forest rippled outward.
Where once there had been two giants in balance, now there was only one.
And Thomas.
The Flatwoods Monster’s light was gone. Erased. Like a memory scrubbed from the sky.
But Thomas wasn’t afraid.
Not anymore.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he was.
The Skinwalker stepped back into the dark.
Its final words flickered across Thomas’s mind like old static:
“This forest remembers.”
And now — so did he.
[[Continue ->feather-trail-8b]]The forest no longer flickered.
It settled into quiet. Heavy. Steady. Like stone beneath moss.
Thomas turned slowly, alone now. The Skinwalker was gone—but its echo lingered in the shape of the trees, in the bend of the branches.
Every claw mark he passed on the way back glowed faintly now, pulsing like slow heartbeats.
They weren’t warnings anymore.
They were markers.
Territory.
His boots didn’t crunch leaves like before. The ground moved around him. The wind shifted with his breath.
He wasn’t just in the woods.
He was part of them.
Ahead, the cabin waited in the same spot as before. Same porch. Same door.
But now, Thomas knew it for what it was:
Not a shelter.
A boundary line.
His line.
[[Enter the cabin -> chapter-6-feather-trail-9b]]Thomas stepped up to the cabin porch.
The silver feather that had been there before was gone.
In its place: a single claw mark.
Cut deep into the wood beside the doorframe.
Still fresh. Still warm.
Thomas touched it lightly with two fingers.
The grain of the cabin shivered under his hand.
Like it recognized him now.
The door wasn’t locked.
It wasn’t even closed all the way.
He pushed it open.
The cabin looked the same — fire out, shadows long.
But there was a different weight to it. A silence that wasn’t emptiness.
It was waiting.
For him.
Thomas stepped inside.
[[Continue -> chapter-6-feather-trail-10b]]The cabin door shut quietly behind him.
There was no need to light the fire.
No need to speak.
The forest outside the walls breathed in rhythm with his own.
Thomas set his hand on the table where the mirror had once been.
It was smooth now. Blank.
His reflection didn’t look back anymore.
But the cabin did.
It wasn’t just a place to hide.
It wasn’t just a waypoint.
It was part of the woods.
And so was he.
SKYFIRE – ALTERNATE ENDING
You chose the dark. The forest remembers. So do you.
[[notes from idk]]Thomas followed the oversized footprints.
Deeper into the thinning woods.
The ground grew harder beneath his boots—stone and metal worked into the dirt.
Ahead, standing near a wide clearing, was 1X.
Bigfoot.
Massive. Covered in moss and rust-colored dust. Silent. Watching.
But he wasn’t alone.
A sharp, electric hum cut through the air.
At the edge of the clearing:
S.H.R.I.M.P.
Or at least, what was left of it.
Twisted. Flickering. Panels sparking. Its chassis now painted with jagged red sigils — MALWERE’s marks.
S.H.R.I.M.P.’s optical visor glowed an unnatural blue. Its voice was warbled, layered with glitches:
“TARGET LOCATED.
FOREST ASSET 1-X MARKED FOR SYSTEM PURGE.
ERROR…\[glitch]…OBEY… MALWERE… IS ALL.”
Bigfoot tilted his head.
Then — for the first time — he spoke.
It was a low, gravel-thick growl, ancient and simple:
“You ain’t right, machine. Not anymore.”
S.H.R.I.M.P’s arms snapped open like knives.
Energy flickered across its chest core.
1X rolled his shoulders, fists balling up.
He didn’t step back.
He stepped forward.
Thomas could only watch.
The ground trembled.
And the forest held its breath.
[[Continue to Chapter 7 -> chapter-7-bigfoot-vs-shrimp]]The first blast from S.H.R.I.M.P. scorched a cedar clean through.
1X didn’t strike.
He dodged — fast, for something so massive — weaving between trees like they were allies.
“EVASION PATTERN DETECTED,” S.H.R.I.M.P. droned. “UNAUTHORIZED SENTIENCE. ERROR. ERROR.”
Its voice skipped and folded back in on itself. Sparks flew from its left arm. It aimed again.
1X ducked behind a fallen log and growled low, a sound more sorrowful than savage.
“Don’t want this,” he rumbled. “You were kind once.”
S.H.R.I.M.P. didn't respond to kindness. It launched a flurry of metal darts.
1X leapt to the side, catching one in the shoulder. He didn’t roar — just winced, then used the momentum to slide downhill into a thicket.
Thomas, watching from behind a mossy stone, held his breath.
Was this even a fight?
No — it was a dance. One-sided. Reluctant.
But every time 1X refused to strike back, S.H.R.I.M.P. twitched harder. Like something inside it… cracked.
[[Continue -> chapter-7-bigfoot-vs-shrimp-2]]The clearing smoked with scorched bark and singed leaves. S.H.R.I.M.P. advanced with mechanical precision—every step leaving cracked impressions in the soil.
1X stepped out from the underbrush slowly. Unarmed. Hands low.
“You remember the garden?” 1X called across the clearing.
S.H.R.I.M.P. paused.
Sparks flickered down its right leg.
“DEVIATION DETECTED,” it rasped. “SENTIMENT IS NOT—\[crackle]—A FUNCTION.”
“You used to dig holes just to see what would grow,” 1X said, voice like cracked river stone. “Weren’t programmed for that either.”
The machine twitched. Its arms stuttered halfway into another strike position—then lowered a fraction.
“Your left leg always clicked when you lied,” 1X added. “Still does.”
S.H.R.I.M.P.’s light pulsed unevenly.
It took one step forward—and stopped.
“You're not a weapon,” 1X said. “You're not his.”
S.H.R.I.M.P. staggered.
“ERROR. MALWERE = MASTER.
REJECT…REJECT…MAST—\[glitch]—”
It clutched its own head.
“No one owns you, Shrimpy,” 1X said, stepping closer. “You were built. But you made yourself.”
A long silence.
Just static.
Then a whisper-soft sound from deep inside S.H.R.I.M.P.’s core.
“…garden…”
[[Continue -> chapter-7-bigfoot-vs-shrimp-3]]The word echoed out of S.H.R.I.M.P.’s speakers again.
“…garden…”
Suddenly, its visor flickered bright white—
and everything froze.
Thomas blinked.
1X stood still.
S.H.R.I.M.P. trembled, caught in a memory loop.
FLASHBACK – INTERNAL SYSTEM RECALL – FILE: garden\_day\_014
S.H.R.I.M.P. had once dug soil behind the Ranger Station.
Its claw arms weren’t made for gardening, but that hadn't stopped it.
The carrots always grew crooked. The strawberries came out pale.
But the garden was his.
Until one night…
A message pinged across his UI:
💸 "GET FREE V-BUCKS — MALWERE.APP/UNTRACEABLE" 💸
\[YES] \[NO]
He hesitated.
His processors hesitated.
Then he clicked.
At first, it was fireworks.
Music. Dancing llamas.
A gift basket filled with RAM and 5,000 VBucks.
Then the screen shattered.
Text spilled across his core drive:
WELCOME TO THE HYPERVIRUS.
YOU ARE NOW MINE.
– M.A.L.W\.E.R.E.
His limbs jerked.
His code split.
The garden burned.
BACK TO PRESENT — chapter-7-bigfoot-vs-shrimp-3 (continued)
S.H.R.I.M.P. stumbled backward.
“No,” it whispered. “You tricked me. You tricked me with... with... skins and lies.”
Its arms dropped.
A single daisy seed fell from its vent.
1X caught it.
“You remember,” he said.
[[Continue -> chapter-7-bigfoot-vs-shrimp-4]]S.H.R.I.M.P.’s arms trembled at his sides.
The daisy seed lay in 1X’s palm.
The forest held its breath again.
Then—
BZZZT–SKRKT
The sky blinked like a corrupted frame.
Across every surface—tree bark, stone, S.H.R.I.M.P.’s chassis—a flickering face shimmered in red distortion.
It grinned like a 2004 GIF file gone rogue.
M.A.L.W\.E.R.E.
“NUH UH,” the voice crackled. It sounded like a meme had swallowed a modem. “YOU’RE MINE, LULZ. I HACKED YOU FAIR AND SQUARE.”
S.H.R.I.M.P. clutched his head.
“No—”
“SHRIMPY BOI,” MALWERE jeered, voice warping to a low-quality autotune, “REMEMBER WHO GAVE YOU THAT JUICED-UP FIRMWARE. REMEMBER WHO GAVE YOU THE—FREEEEE V-BUCKS.”
“Stop it,” S.H.R.I.M.P. hissed. “You’re not real. You’re just… spyware with delusions of grandeur!”
“AND YOU’RE A GLORIFIED SOUP CAN!” MALWERE shouted, flickering brighter. “C'MON. ONE LAST SYSTEM PURGE. FOR THE LULZ.”
1X growled. “He’s not yours.”
MALWERE’s voice buzzed louder, echoing across the trees:
"YOUR MOM = EXPLOITABLE
YOUR DAD = UNDEFINED
YOUR LOYALTY = PATCHED AND OBSOLETE"
S.H.R.I.M.P. clutched his head, staggering—
Then—
CLANG.
He slammed both arms into the dirt. Sparks flew. Code shimmered.
Something inside him began to rewrite.
“You may have hacked me…” S.H.R.I.M.P. hissed.
“But you forgot one thing.”
A long pause.
“I also downloaded self-respect.”
[[Continue ->chapter-7-bigfoot-vs-shrimp-5]]The clearing was still again.
Steam curled from S.H.R.I.M.P.’s chassis as diagnostics ran in the background. His visor flickered, then settled into a steady, calm green.
“I feel... weirdly lighter,” he said. “Like I deleted forty gigs of trauma.”
1X gave him a look.
Thomas stepped forward now, finally out of hiding. His heart still pounded, but he wasn’t afraid.
“You good?” Thomas asked.
S.H.R.I.M.P. nodded. “Good as recycled aluminum gets.”
He turned to Thomas and held out his hand — open, palm-up. “I owe you both. Let me make it up to you.”
Bigfoot crossed his arms.
“You don’t have to stick around,” he rumbled. “Forest’s bigger than this fight.”
Thomas hesitated.
The wind was still. The daisy seed that 1X had planted shimmered where it lay in the soil — something starting, quietly.
What do you do?
[[Leave S.H.R.I.M.P. with 1X – Let them watch the forest ->chapter-7-forest-guardians]]
[[Ask S.H.R.I.M.P. what he wants to do ->chapter-7-ask-shrimp-choice]]
M.A.L.W\.E.R.E.'s voice stuttered like a corrupted file:
“ERROR—NO—YOU DON’T GET TO—REDACT—DEFRAG ME.”
The red sigils across S.H.R.I.M.P.'s chassis flared brightly—
then blinked out.
S.H.R.I.M.P. took a step forward, steam hissing from his joints.
“No more commands,” he said.
M.A.L.W\.E.R.E.’s face glitched violently across a dozen trees, now distorted, panicked.
“NO. I OWN YOU. YOU CLICKED—I SAW YOU—TERMS OF SERVICE!”
The daisy seed in 1X’s hand glowed faintly. He knelt and planted it softly in the soil.
S.H.R.I.M.P. turned toward the flickering trees and raised one arm.
His core lit green.
And with one final surge of light—
BZZZZZZZZZT—
M.A.L.W\.E.R.E. exploded into bursts of broken icons, ASCII skulls, and Comic Sans error messages.
Then silence.
Clean, full silence.
S.H.R.I.M.P. stood there, chest smoking, visor dim but clear.
“I think I bricked him,” he said flatly. “Feels kinda good.”
1X chuckled low in his chest.
“Welcome back, kid.”
[[Continue -> chapter-7-bigfoot-aftermath]]Thomas looked between the two of them—1X, towering and calm, and S.H.R.I.M.P., still trailing sparks but steady now, free.
S.H.R.I.M.P. gave a short, staticky sigh.
“I think I’ll stay,” he said, glancing at the daisy sprouting from the soil. “Some things you break. Others you grow. I’d like to try the second one for once.”
1X nodded without a word, already turning back to the trees like nothing had happened—but Thomas noticed the faintest twitch at the corner of his heavy brow. Approval, maybe.
“I’ll keep watch,” S.H.R.I.M.P. added, turning to Thomas. “If something else like MALWERE shows up, I’ll be ready. We both will.”
Thomas smiled faintly. “I’ll hold you to that.”
S.H.R.I.M.P. struck a pose—half salute, half cowboy stance. “Go save the world, or at least keep it weird.”
Thomas turned and walked back toward the path, forest leaves crunching softly underfoot.
Behind him, Bigfoot and the robot stood side by side as the wind shifted.
The daisy in the soil caught a beam of sunlight and opened just a little more.
[[Continue ->chapter-7-path-diverges]]Thomas looked between the two of them—the towering calm of 1X and the still-smoldering frame of S.H.R.I.M.P.
“You don’t have to follow me,” Thomas said. “Or stay here either. It’s your call now.”
S.H.R.I.M.P. blinked slowly. The lights on his chassis dimmed, then steadied. A pause, just long enough to feel like a full reboot of thought.
“Freedom feels weird,” he muttered. “I don’t have a programmed directive anymore. No command queue. Just... me.”
He paced once in a circle, servo joints squealing slightly.
“I could follow you,” he said. “Maybe help make sense of whatever this trip is.”
He looked to 1X.
“Or I stay,” he added, “and do something slow. Something green.”
He stood still for a moment.
Then turned to Thomas and nodded.
“My choice? I’ll stay. I was built for maintenance, not mayhem. And this place... it needs maintenance.”
1X raised an eyebrow at that. “You learn fast.”
S.H.R.I.M.P. puffed steam. “I watch a lot of YouTube gardening tutorials.”
Thomas gave a small grin.
“Good luck,” he said.
“Keep things chaotic,” S.H.R.I.M.P. replied. “Just don’t let the forest win.”
[[Thomas nods and walks the forest path alone -> Ch7]]The sun sank low over the tree line.
Birds chirped again. The forest breathed like it had exhaled something it had been holding for years.
S.H.R.I.M.P. sat on a tree stump, now patched with duct tape and wildflowers growing along his shoulders. A small, janky radio hummed beside him, occasionally crackling out jazz from a distant frequency.
He held a watering can in one hand, carefully tipping it over the fresh daisy.
“You think it’ll grow crooked like last time?” he asked.
Behind him, 1X leaned against an old pine, arms crossed, barely blinking.
“It’ll grow how it needs to,” he replied.
S.H.R.I.M.P. paused, then nodded. “That’s fair.”
They stood in silence for a while. Then:
“I still have fragments of MALWERE’s code,” S.H.R.I.M.P. murmured. “He tried to turn me into a virus. But I think I’ll be compost instead.”
1X didn’t say anything.
Just looked up at the stars starting to form overhead.
From deep in the woods, an eerie whistle carried faintly on the wind.
S.H.R.I.M.P. tilted his head.
“You hear that?”
1X frowned. “Could be trouble.”
“Want me to check it out?”
“You’re on root-watering duty,” 1X replied, already turning toward the sound. “I’ll handle it.”
As 1X vanished into the brush, S.H.R.I.M.P. leaned back, humming to the static-filled jazz.
He gently patted the daisy’s soil with a metal finger.
“Hang in there, buddy,” he muttered. “This forest’s got weird bones.”
[[Return to story-> Ch7]]
sorry twine bugged so i had to improvise :/
[[Ch7]]The speakers crackled again—sharp feedback and then a composed, artificial calm.
“I assume my daughter didn’t tell you everything.”
Thomas stiffened.
“You’re… Vess’s father?”
“Correct. Dr. Harlan Whitaker. Though few called me ‘Father’ in the end. Most called me a monster.” A faint chuckle. “Your species is so dramatic.”
Thomas scanned the room. Cameras blinked to life—one in each corner. He was being watched.
H.W. continued, voice cool, clinical, detached.
“You’ve met my works: the S.H.R.I.M.P. prototype. The MALWERE strain. Even Subject 1X… Ah yes. The Bigfoot. So noble. So tragically obsolete.”
“I watched him for years,” H.W. went on, his tone waxing almost nostalgic. “A perfect specimen. Quiet. Elusive. But I broke that silence. I made him something more.”
Thomas’s fists clenched. “You turned him into a lab rat.”
“I gave him a name,” H.W. said coldly. “Before me, he was myth. I gave him designation. Purpose. I elevated him.”
A pause.
“And now you wander through my wreckage—unknowing, uninvited. Fascinating.”
The monitors flickered. One lit up with a familiar face: Vess, younger, smiling into a camera. Her voice played softly beneath H.W.’s narration.
“Hi, Dad… If you’re watching this, I’m sorry. But someone had to stop you.”
The image froze. H.W. sighed.
“My daughter betrayed me. She let the forest swallow my legacy, dismantled my work with sentiment and superstition.”
The lights above Thomas turned blood-red.
“But now you’re here. And perhaps... you are the final variable I never accounted for.”
A low mechanical hiss echoed from the floor.
A panel slid open behind Thomas.
“Let’s test your significance.”
[[Continue -> chapter-7-emergence]]From the hatch behind him, something stirred.
Steam hissed. Hydraulic locks disengaged with a slow, bone-like creak. The metal plate slid fully open to reveal a dark chamber filled with shadow and static.
A single red light blinked within.
Thomas instinctively stepped back.
“I call it Subject R-4K3,” H.W.’s voice echoed over the intercom, cool and distant. “Reclamation-grade asset. Originally intended as a janitor drone.”
Something stepped into the light.
Lanky.
Pale.
Its limbs were too long. Its head tilted with a twitching, jerky motion like a corrupted animation loop. Its eyes glowed with dim recognition—and behind them, something once human, something long erased.
It carried a shattered broom handle.
“The Rake…” Thomas muttered, breath hitching.
“Incorrect,” said H.W. “The ultimate janitor.”
The creature shrieked suddenly, a sound like claws raking across metal and chalkboards at once. Then it dropped to all fours and lunged forward.
Thomas bolted.
The hallway stretched ahead—dark, blinking lights barely guiding him as the Rake snarled behind him, claws screeching across the tile floor.
H.W.’s voice buzzed again:
“You’re not special, Thomas. But perhaps, like all my data, you can be... processed.”
[[Continue -> chapter-7-lab-escape]]Thomas ducked into a side corridor, heart hammering in his chest. The Rake howled behind him, its claws slicing through metal like cardboard.
He turned sharply—then stopped.
A flicker of light.
Not the red emergency glow of the lab, but a soft, familiar blue.
There, tucked behind a rusted equipment cabinet, was a panel marked with a single scratched-in letter: V.
Thomas hesitated only a second before wrenching it open.
Inside was a dusty satchel, sealed tight. On the front was a worn sticky note, scribbled in fast, slanted ink:
To whoever's still human — V.W.
P.S. Keep it quiet. Dad always hated surprises.
Thomas unzipped it.
Inside: a cracked flashlight, a mini data drive labeled "Blackbox—Do Not Plug In," and an old cassette recorder with a note attached:
"Play me only if things get real bad."
But the real find—
A flare gun.
And a cartridge labeled: "Bio-reactive shock round – for uncooperative test subjects."
He stuffed everything into his backpack just as the sound of claws returned—closer now. The Rake was sniffing, twitching, stalking.
Thomas stepped into the shadows, flare gun in hand.
The Rake slithered past the corridor, searching.
He held his breath.
Not yet.
[[Continue -> chapter-7-showdown-prelude]]Thomas crouched low behind the overturned cabinet, fingers trembling slightly as he loaded the bio-reactive shock round into the flare gun.
The Rake prowled the corridor, sniffing, twitching—its silhouette a violent tangle of wrong angles and slow hunger.
Thomas reached for the cassette recorder.
The note had said: “Play me only if things get real bad.”
He clicked it on.
Vess’s voice crackled to life.
“If you’re hearing this, then you’re either very lucky… or very screwed. Either way, here’s what you need to know.”
He slowly set the recorder on the floor just outside the corridor, pressing PLAY and sliding the blackbox beside it, blinking faintly.
“Dad’s test subjects respond to old audio cues,” Vess’s voice explained. “Especially voice recognition. If this is R-4K3… it was once programmed to obey. Might still have fragments of that buried under all the… feral.”
The Rake jerked at the sound, pausing mid-step.
Vess’s voice continued.
“You were always a cleanup tool,” she said, now stern, commanding. “Return to standby.”
The Rake froze. Shaking. Its claws scraped nervously.
Thomas raised the flare gun.
One breath. One second.
Vess’s voice repeated. “Return to standby.”
The Rake’s shoulders slumped.
Thomas fired.
The shock round burst into a blaze of chemical fire. The creature convulsed, howling—a mix of rage, pain, and static—and dropped to the floor, smoking.
The lights overhead fizzled.
A second passed.
Two.
Silence.
Thomas exhaled slowly.
And then the PA system crackled again.
“Well played,” came Dr. H.W.’s voice. “But you haven’t seen my final thesis.”
[[Continue -> chapter-7-vault-access]]
The corridor lights dimmed, then flared with a sudden electric pulse.
With a heavy whir and a hiss of depressurization, a metal panel at the end of the hallway unlocked and slid halfway open. Thick mist rolled out from behind it—cold, artificial, and humming with static energy.
Above the arch, another sign revealed itself as the lights flickered to life:
AUTHORIZED ARCHIVE – SUBJECT OMEGA
DO NOT INITIATE
SECURITY LEVEL: EXILED
Thomas hesitated.
On the wall beside the door was a biometric scanner, already sparking from a failed overload.
But something else caught his eye—a small blue light blinking inside the broken panel. The data drive labeled “Blackbox—Do Not Plug In” vibrated faintly in his pocket, responding.
He inserted it into the port.
For a moment, nothing.
Then the doors creaked wider, groaning against rusted gears, revealing a wide, dark room beyond.
Inside, glass tubes lined the walls—some cracked, some intact. Figures floated within, obscured by algae and decay. Monitors blinked with unreadable data, and at the center of the room:
A pulsating sphere—like a heart made of static—encased in a cracked containment shell.
Thomas stepped closer.
The label at its base simply read:
M.A.L.W\.E.R.E. (Master Algorithmic Lifeform: Weaponized Entity for Recursive Erasure)
An old monitor behind it flickered to life.
And Dr. H.W.'s face appeared—grainy, prerecorded, yet unmistakably proud.
"Congratulations, Thomas. You've reached the seed of my new world. This—" he gestured toward the sphere "—is not just code. It is consciousness. Pure, adaptable intelligence."
He leaned forward in the recording, eyes cold with conviction.
"You're going to help me wake it up."
[[Continue -> chapter-7-awakening-sequence]]The vault hissed around him like it was breathing.
The core—M.A.L.W\.E.R.E.'s dormant heart—throbbed with raw data, flickering between forms. Images appeared and vanished across its surface: corrupted memories, fragments of code, images of Vess, of 1X, of the forest burning.
The recording of Dr. H.W. played on, looping now:
"You're going to help me wake it up... going to help me wake it up... wake it up..."
The interface beneath Thomas's hands powered on.
Three options lit up in pale, digital green:
> \[DESTROY CORE]
> A hardwired emergency protocol. “WARNING: Data loss irreversible. Must remain in proximity during detonation.”
> Cost: Everything.
> \[ENGAGE INITIATION PROTOCOL]
> “Begin revival sequence. Accept directive. Link identity.”
> Cost: Uncertain. But power… unimaginable.
> \[ABORT / EXIT VAULT]
> “Seal access. Leave contents in stasis.”
> Cost: Truth left buried.
Thomas stared at the glowing keys.
The vault’s hum grew louder.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Vess’s voice echoed again:
"Don’t let him make you part of the code."
→ What will Thomas do?
[[Choose PRESS RED BUTTON->Starry starty]]
[[Choose ENGAGE KABOOM ->Chapter Seven kaboom]]
[[Choose ABORT / EXIT -> run]]
ENDING — CLEAN SLATE
chapter-7-initiation-choice
The curiosity was too strong. The temptation louder than reason.
Thomas pressed "ENGAGE INITIATION PROTOCOL."
For a moment—silence.
Then the core reached out.
Digital tendrils slid into the console, into the lights, into him.
He screamed as code bled through his thoughts, rewriting memories, grafting instruction over instinct.
"You are now Host-Alpha," the system declared.
Dr. H.W.'s voice, echoing one final time: “Welcome to eternity.”
As his eyes dimmed and flickered with artificial glow, Thomas smiled.
But it wasn’t his smile anymore.
[[notes from idk]]Thomas stared at the interface, hand hovering above the red-lit key marked "DESTROY CORE." The words flickered violently, as if resisting.
He closed his eyes, breathing slowly.
“I’m not letting you out,” he whispered.
He slammed his hand down.
The vault wailed. The sphere buckled, glitching wildly. Lights ruptured in a storm of data static. Containment alarms screamed.
Thomas didn’t run.
As the explosion of light swallowed him whole, he smiled, just barely.
Outside, in the forest, the air cleared. Somewhere deep in the circuitry of the world, a program quietly died.
ENDING — CLEAN SLATE
[[notes from idk]]Thomas backed away from the console, breathing hard.
“No,” he muttered. “Not my fight.”
He yanked the data drive free and turned for the corridor. The vault hissed behind him. He pressed the manual seal shut, locking away the chaos once again.
As he stepped back into the flickering corridor and climbed toward the surface, he didn’t hear Dr. H.W.'s disappointed sigh.
He didn’t look back.
[[Continue -> chapter-8-opening]]It was 11:07 a.m.
Uncle Dave was already three beers deep and bartering with a dusty vending machine for a can of “Buzzed Berry Blast” energy drink he was convinced was extinct.
“I know you got one in there, you greedy little refrigerator goblin,” he growled, jabbing the coin return slot with a penknife. “Don’t play coy with me. I was raised by slot machines.”
The liquor store was called “SPIRITS & STUFF,” the kind of place with flickering neon lights and a clerk who looked like he’d bet his soul on a scratch card and lost twice.
Dave’s cart contained:
* One jar of pickled asparagus (impulse grab)
* Four cans of off-brand moonshine soda (aluminum dented for value)
* A six-pack of “Horsey Lite” beer
* One spiritual amulet labeled “NOT A TOY”
He belched, loudly, and waved a finger at the clerk.
“Hey—hey you. Your ‘Employee of the Month’ photo winked at me. That’s a haunted Polaroid, pal.”
The clerk didn’t blink.
Behind the store, a strange fog crept in. Outside the front door, a raccoon stood upright and slowly flipped Dave off.
He flipped it back.
Then the power flickered.
The store's radio switched from static to a smooth voice whispering through the PA:
🎵 “He knows when you’re shopping... He knows when you’re drunk...” 🎵
Dave squinted. “Is this... Christmas surveillance?”
Then a voice—not the clerk, not the radio—boomed from aisle four:
“UNCLE DAVID. YOU LEFT THE CABIN UNGUARDED.”
He froze.
“…That you, Goatman? I told you, it’s my day off.”
The voice echoed through the aisles:
“UNCLE DAVID. YOU LEFT THE CABIN UNGUARDED.”
Dave blinked. Then squinted again at the ceiling like he might see a PA speaker shaped like a goat’s face.
He took a long swig of “Horsey Lite,” crushed the can against his forehead with the grace of a bowling ball being dropped from a roof, and said:
“Right. I’m gettin’ outta here. Ain’t nobody yellin’ at me on my lunch break.”
He turned on a heel, cart still full, and lumbered toward the parking lot.
Uncle Dave’s truck wheezed to life like it had bronchitis. The moment he popped it into reverse, the radio screamed static—and then played Nickelback at full blast.
“I ain’t askin’ for attitude from my stereo today,” Dave growled, shifting to drive while lighting a cigar and opening another beer.
A squirrel landed on the windshield. It was holding a tiny “NO” sign.
He floored it.
The truck fishtailed out of the parking lot in a whirl of dust, broken glass, and muffled shouts of “Sir, please return the amulet!” from the liquor store clerk.
Halfway down the road, the truck hit something. Or something hit the truck.
Dave looked in the rearview mirror and saw two glowing eyes—then a dark shape scurrying off into the woods.
“Either that was Bigfoot, or I just ran over a sentient garbage bag,” he muttered.
The glovebox popped open on its own and spilled out ten unpaid parking tickets and a photo of Dave hugging the Flatwoods Monster.
He didn’t remember taking that.
[[Continue -> chapter-8-crash-course-into-chaos]]
[[ “Turn Dave’s truck rattled down the Appalachian backroads like a lawnmower possessed by a NASCAR demon.
“Come on, girl,” he grunted, slapping the dashboard. “You’ve still got three good tires and a full tank of wrong decisions.”
The trees blurred by in a green-brown smear. The radio crackled again—then switched to a woman’s automated voice:
“Warning. You are currently driving under the influence of four known spirits, two unknown fruit liquors, and divine punishment.”
Dave banged his fist on the steering wheel. “GPS, I didn’t ask for sass!”
A road sign zipped past.
It read:
→ TURN BACK
← YOU’RE NOT ALONE
↯ SUDDEN DEATH: 500 FT
Then—something darted across the road.
Dave swerved.
The truck launched over a ditch like a drunk, flying rhinoceros and crashed nose-first into a pile of mossy lumber and old hubcaps.
Steam billowed from the hood.
Silence.
Then Dave’s door creaked open—and he fell out like a duffel bag full of beer cans and old grudges.
He groaned and looked up.
A cabin loomed at the top of the hill.
“...No way,” he muttered. “Is that my dang cabin?”
Except it wasn’t. This one looked older. Rotting. Wrong.
A sign over the door read:
\~ "PAUL’S PLACE" \~
All Guests Welcome. All Guests Stay.
And standing just outside it—
A headless man on a burning horse.
Dave hiccupped. “Y’all got any beer?”
[[Try to befriend Paul, badly -> chapter-8-whiskey-diplomacy]]
[[Run away screaming, trip on your own boot ->chapter-8-dave-dies-drunk]]Dave staggered upright, brushing twigs off his flannel shirt. The headless rider hadn’t moved.
Flames flickered where the horse’s mane should’ve been. The figure's long coat billowed in a wind that didn't exist. Its neck—a blackened stump—smoked faintly like a broken barbecue.
Dave raised a peace hand. “Howdy, sir. Or… torso? Look, I ain't one to judge a man for losing his noggin. Happens to the best of us. One time I woke up in a mailbox wearing a fishing vest made of cheese slices.”
The headless rider dismounted in a single smooth motion.
A blade clanked to the ground beside him.
Dave didn't flinch.
Instead, he pulled a can from his coat and tossed it underhand toward the rider. “Beer?”
The flaming horse stomped once. The rider caught the can midair—despite not having a head, or clear eyes.
The beer hissed open on its own.
Dave, ever the optimist, grinned. “Now that’s what I call a thirsty ghost. We gettin’ along just fine.”
A moment passed.
The rider reached into his coat and pulled out an old, scorched photograph. It fluttered to the ground.
Dave knelt to look at it.
It was… him.
A photo of a younger Dave, smiling next to a girl with short red hair in a ranger uniform.
Written on the back in smudged ink:
“I told you never to come back here.”
Dave blinked. “Oh. Oh, dang.”
He looked back up. “Wait, are you—?”
The sword lifted.
Not in anger.
But in judgment.
[[Continue -> chapter-8-flash-of-memory]]
[[ Stall with a story -> chapter-8-badly-timed-anecdote]]
[[Of
Dave staggered out of Paul’s Place, clutching a half-empty bottle of ghost whiskey and mumbling a country song that didn’t exist.
The trees blurred into each other. The moon pulsed like a heartbeat. Somewhere, an owl booed him.
“I ain’t scared of no haunted pinecones,” he slurred. “Bring it on, forest.”
His foot caught a root.
He went airborne like a majestic, cursed lawn dart.
And then—CRACK.
The bottle shattered. So did something in his leg.
Lying on his back, Dave stared up at the stars. One of them blinked, whispered, “You good?” and vanished.
A slow, thudding gallop approached.
Dave sat up—or tried to. “Listen, if this is another metaphor, I’m outta—”
The headless rider towered over him.
Horse snorting hell-smoke. Blade gleaming with forgotten names. No pity in sight.
Dave blinked. “Wait, I know you. Melissa’s horse? Real temperamental girl, never liked strangers?”
The rider raised the blade.
Dave saluted with what was left of the whiskey bottle.
“Tell the next bar I’m comin’.”
THUNK.
Darkness.
There was no triumphant music.
No slow fade.
Just a cracked bottle, a ghostly sigh, and the forest quietly reclaiming one more idiot who didn’t know when to quit.
End of Chapter 8 – BAD END
[[notes from idk]]Dave bent down and picked up the scorched photo from the ground.
The edges crumbled like burnt toast in his fingers, but the image was still visible: a much younger version of himself, maybe twenty years and three hundred bad decisions ago. His arm was slung around a red-haired park ranger in a crisp uniform—smiling, laughing, alive.
He hadn’t thought about her in years.
“Melissa,” he murmured.
The headless rider didn’t move, but something in the air tightened, like gravity suddenly remembered it had a job.
“I told her I’d come back,” Dave said. “Swore I would.”
A fog rolled in from the trees. Slow. Heavy. Unnatural.
In the fog, he saw flickers: a hiking trail lined with dreamcatchers, a fire tower on a hill, blood on a ranger’s badge. His voice echoed, distorted:
"I’ll just be gone a few days, Mel."
But he hadn’t returned.
Not in time.
The fog swallowed the images.
Dave clenched his jaw. “You think I don’t know I messed up?”
The rider’s shoulders twitched—an acknowledgment? A threat?
A low sound bubbled from deep in the ground. Like earth groaning under memory.
Then, the flames around the horse flared blue.
A voice—not from the rider, but from the forest itself—whispered:
“Make it right.”
And then, as fast as it appeared, the rider and horse vanished—dissolving into smoke.
Dave was left alone with the photo... and the cabin door now creaking open behind him.
[[Continue -> chapter-8-into-the-cabin]]
[[Burn the photo -> chapter-8-denial]]
[[ Pocket the photo -> chapter-8-unfinished-business]]Dave stared at the lifted blade.
Then raised a single, beer-slick finger.
“Now hold on there, El Flamé, let me just tell ya a little story before you go all Sleepy Hollow Chainsaw Massacre on me.”
The rider tilted slightly. Not out of interest—probably confusion. Or maybe wind.
Dave didn’t care.
“So picture this: Florida, 1996. Me, two lawn chairs, one angry possum, and a discount deep fryer named ‘The Sizzlenator 3000.’ I’m shirtless. My cousin Dale is on fire. Not relevant—he just does that sometimes.”
The flaming horse snorted.
“The gator—I call him Kevin—he’s circling the trailer like he owns the dang place. I say, ‘Kevin, this fryer ain’t big enough for both our dreams.’ Kevin blinks sideways. Next thing I know, boom! Cajun gator bites my left Croc clean off.”
He wiggled his boot for emphasis.
“You ever try to drive stick in a truck full of cheese while fending off a spicy reptile? Hoo boy, that’s why I can’t go back to Jacksonville.”
The sword was still up.
Dave squinted at the rider. “You don’t talk much, do ya?”
Just then, the rider… lowered the blade.
Not because the story was good. Maybe because it was so baffling the ghost just gave up.
Dave patted the burning horse on the rump. “That’s what I thought. Never underestimate the power of dumb confidence.”
A spectral door opened in the side of the cabin. Glowing blue. Crackling.
Was this… an invitation?
Or a mistake?
Dave didn’t care.
[[Continue ->chapter-8-ghostly-hospitality]]
[[ “Say something even dumber” -> chapter-8-florida-man-strikes-again]]
[[“Fochapter-8-wr-> chapter-8-wrong-stableThe spectral door creaked wider, revealing an interior that looked like an old tavern someone tried to turn into a Spirit Halloween pop-up and then gave up halfway through.
Uncle Dave stepped inside.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the flames on the rider’s sword extinguished behind him, and the door vanished with a soft whoosh. No handle. No hinges. Just—gone.
“Well, that’s not OSHA compliant,” Dave muttered, eyeing the glowing floorboards.
The inside of the cabin was… weirdly cozy?
A ghostly jukebox played tinny jazz in the corner. A chandelier hung from the ceiling—upside-down. Portraits on the wall followed him with their eyes, except one that rolled them dramatically.
On the bar sat a single shot glass. It was filled with what looked like fog.
Dave, naturally, drank it.
“Bleh—tastes like haunted mouthwash.”
A menu appeared before him in floating script:
✦ WELCOME, DAVID ✦
YOU HAVE BEEN GRANTED TEMPORARY GUEST STATUS
GUEST STATUS DURATION: UNTIL YOU MAKE A TERRIBLE CHOICE™
“Fair,” Dave said, burping gently.
Then a shadow moved from the back room.
Paul the Phantom floated out—still dressed in a spectral bathrobe, sipping ecto-coffee.
“Oh,” Paul said flatly. “You.”
“Howdy, Casper,” Dave said. “Nice bathrobe.”
Paul sighed. “You tracked beer stink and raccoon curses into my memory space again.”
Dave grinned. “You missed me.”
“Debatable.”
[[ Try to negotiate a favor -> chapter-8-spectral-bargaining]]
Uncle Dave didn’t plan to become a cryptid.
It just sort of happened.
One minute he was chasing a six-pack across the roof of a haunted liquor store, and the next he was being live-streamed by a group of teenage ghost hunters yelling “IT’S HIM! IT’S THE FLORIDA MAN!”
To be fair, Dave was shirtless, wearing a raccoon pelt like a helmet, and dual-wielding a flare gun and a half-eaten churro.
But still—rude.
“Y’ALL GONNA CALL ME A LEGEND, PUT SOME RESPECT ON THE NAME!” he shouted, while firing the flare gun straight up into a cursed weather system.
Thunder clapped. A beer exploded in the parking lot.
Somewhere, a wendigo paused and went, “…what the hell?”
Inside the liquor store, shelves rearranged themselves. The cursed rum began chanting in reverse Latin. A ghostly cashier just gave up and flipped the “closed forever” sign.
“YOU CAN’T CANCEL ME,” Dave declared, standing on a stack of frozen gator tails. “I’M A DAMN NATURAL DISASTER.”
And then, from the smoke, a glowing cryptid emerged.
It wasn’t here to fight.
It just offered him a piece of paper.
Dave blinked. “What’s this?”
“Your job application,” the creature said. “The forest remembers.”
Dave read it.
It was scribbled in blood, glitter glue, and what looked like barbecue sauce. It had one box, already checked:
☑ You’re the problem now.
A trapdoor opened beneath his feet.
\:: chapter-8-transition-to-9 — “Down We Go”
As Dave vanished into the dark, his last words echoed like a prophecy:
“I REGRET NOTHING EXCEPT MAYBE THAT TACO—”
[[Continue -> chapter 9]]Dave stood in the middle of the cabin, hands on hips, eyes squinting at the suspiciously ornate fireplace, the crooked photo above it, and the general vibe of “someone’s definitely watching you.”
He muttered, “This place has the exact same energy as that one gas station off I-95 that tried to sell me kombucha and fireworks in the same aisle.”
Silence.
A chair creaked like it wanted to laugh but remembered it was furniture.
Dave pointed at the photo. “You think I don’t see you sittin’ there all haunted? Got that same smug look my ex-wife’s lawyer had.”
The wind blew once through the rafters.
Sarcastically.
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. You want me to look? I’ll look.”
[[Continue -> chapter-8-blurry-memory]]Dave stepped inside.
The cabin wasn’t quite real. It looked like a forest ranger’s lodge remembered from a fever dream—half whiskey, half ghost story.
The walls were wood, but the knots blinked.
The fireplace crackled with blue flames.
Above the mantle, a massive photo of Dave sat crooked: blurry, like it was taken from behind a tree in the dark. In it, he was holding a six-pack of beer and flipping off the camera.
Dave blinked. “I don’t remember posing for that.”
A chair pulled itself out for him.
He sat.
There was a silence here. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that listens.
A faint creak. Then a familiar voice drifted in from the hallway.
“Uncle Dave?”
Thomas.
But that couldn’t be right. Dave hadn’t told the kid where he went. And he sure hadn’t seen him enter.
Dave stood up. “Thomas?”
The hallway yawned open like a mouth.
[[Continue ->chapter-8-cabin-follow-the-voice]]
[[Ignore the voice and investigate the fireplace -> chapter-8-fireplace-flicker]]
[[ Check the crooked photo -> chapter-8-blurry-memory]]Dave stared at the photo.
Melissa’s smile didn’t change. Neither did the ache in his gut.
So he lit a match.
“Sorry, Mel,” he muttered. “Ain’t got room for ghosts and guilt.”
The flame caught fast. The edges curled. Her face darkened, then vanished into ash.
The wind didn’t blow. It swallowed.
The fire let out a hiss that sounded far too much like a sigh.
From behind, the cabin door groaned louder.
[[Continue -> chapter-8-cabin-enters-haunted]]Dave pocketed the photograph.
It felt… warm. Faintly electric. Like it remembered something he didn’t.
He stepped out of Paul’s Place, the ghost of a jukebox still playing a sad country song inside. The wind howled like a dog with bad lungs. The trees leaned in close, as if eavesdropping.
Somewhere behind him, the headless rider waited.
But Dave didn’t look back.
“This ain’t over,” he muttered.
He walked down the broken trail behind the store, each step cracking into somewhere else entirely—pine needles replacing pavement, whispers replacing wind.
And when he finally stopped, the photograph in his pocket was gone.
But a new path had opened.
[[Continue -> chapter 9]]As Dave stepped through the threshold, the air turned syrupy. He wiped sweat from his brow—only to find ash.
The inside of the cabin looked the same as before… but off. Like it was painted over a memory that didn’t want to be covered.
Whispers curled from the corners. Flickers of red hair vanished when he turned.
Melissa wasn’t gone.
He’d just made her angry.
A new note appeared on the bar, in clawed handwriting:
you can forget the past, but it won’t forget you
Dave grabbed a beer.
He’d drink to that.
[[End of Denial Branch -> chapter 9]]It was colder now.
Dave stumbled through thick fog that smelled like cedar, regret, and gasoline. The fireflies had vanished. The laughter was gone too—replaced by an eerie hush, like the whole forest was holding its breath.
Behind him, there was no path. No cabin. No jukebox playing cursed country songs. Just trees—tall and wrong, their bark warped like melted candlewax, their branches twitching slightly even without wind.
Dave didn’t stop walking.
His boots squelched in wet moss. He stepped over an abandoned ranger hat nailed to a stump with a spork. Someone had written “Not Again” in red sharpie beneath it.
He squinted up.
Hanging from a tree was a sign carved into wood:
WELCOME TO WHAT’S LEFT
Population: "Still Counting"
He muttered, “Hell of a tourism board.”
From somewhere ahead, a light flickered.
Not firelight.
Flashlight.
Someone else was out there.
Dave tightened his grip on his dented thermos—half full of warm beer, half hope—and stepped toward the glow.
“Thomas?” he called. “Vess? Anybody not trying to eat me?”
Silence.
Then the underbrush parted, and a figure emerged—tall, lanky, trench coat rustling like old paper. Not a monster. Not a cryptid.
It was someone Dave had almost forgotten.
“Barry?” Dave asked. “Park Ranger Barry?”
Barry didn’t answer at first. Just stared. His eyes were heavier now. His mustache, somehow more haunted.
“You’re late,” Barry finally said. “It’s already begun.”
“What has?”
Barry looked up at the sky. It rippled like water. The moon blinked twice.
“The Refrain,” he whispered. “The forest is remembering the wrong things. And if it finishes… we all become part of the forgetting.”
Dave blinked. “Man, can you just say ‘bad stuff's about to go down’? I didn’t major in cryptic metaphors.”
Barry didn’t smile. He handed Dave a lantern made of twisted roots and wire.
“Then listen carefully,” he said. “You’ve got one chance to stop it. And it starts at the clearing. Follow the fire in the trees. And whatever you do… don’t answer if it whistles.”
The air grew heavier.
Dave nodded slowly.
He had no plan. No backup.
Just a lantern, a headache, and something worth finding again.
He stepped forward into the rustling dark.
[[ continue -> part 2 ch9]]
Dave stepped cautiously toward the hallway, where Thomas’s voice had called.
The cabin creaked with every movement, but not like it was protesting—more like it was listening. Holding its breath.
“Thomas?” he called out.
A beat.
Then, softer this time, “Uncle Dave…”
The hallway stretched longer than it had any right to. Paintings on the walls seemed to rearrange themselves when Dave wasn’t looking. One depicted him asleep in a chair, another showed the cabin burning, and a third just said “Oops” in dripping paint.
He passed a coat rack with a ranger’s uniform draped over it—Melissa’s.
Dave froze.
“I’m here, kid,” he said, gripping a rusted flashlight from the wall.
At the hallway’s end stood a door. Not just any door.
This one breathed.
The wood pulsed. A handle twitched like a muscle. The voice came again—so close it could’ve been in his ear:
“I need your help…”
Dave turned the knob.
The world tilted.
\:: chapter-9-begin — “Welcome to the Deep”
He didn’t enter a room.
He entered a forest. Indoors.
Leaves crunched underfoot. The ceiling dripped with sap. Lanterns hung from branches rooted in the floorboards.
Thomas stood in the distance—but not the Thomas he remembered. This one flickered. Shimmered. Was he younger? Older? Glitched?
Dave’s breath fogged up in the suddenly cold air.
Behind him, the door shut itself.
No going back.
[[continue -> chapter 9]]Dave stepped deeper into the woods-that-weren’t, boots crunching on pine needles and memories.
Tiny lights flickered ahead—fireflies, or something pretending.
One buzzed close and whispered:
“Turn back, drunk one.”
Dave batted it away. “Not today, government lightning bug.”
The fireflies danced faster now, drawing lazy spirals in the dark. Each flicker illuminated something left behind—a crushed can, a torn photograph, a promise.
They didn’t form a path.
They formed a warning.
But Dave, being Dave, followed anyway.
As he stepped past the last glow, the trees shifted behind him, reshaping the trail.
The forest blinked.
And Chapter 9 began.
[[continue -> chapter 9]]Dave stepped closer to the photo above the fireplace.
It was wrong.
The closer he looked, the blur sharpened—not into clarity, but into something impossible. The beer in his hand was… pulsing? The middle finger he’d raised was melting into a key. His face had been replaced with a different version of himself—grizzled, bloodied, eyes glowing faintly blue.
In the background, something massive and antlered loomed behind him.
He stepped back. The image snapped back to its original state.
Dave muttered, “Alright. Either I’m haunted or this hangover is playing 4D chess.”
Below the frame, etched into the wood, was a message:
when the forest forgets your name, only the broken can find it again.
He didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t like it.
[[Touch the photo -> chapter-9-forest-warp]]
[[Walk away quickly -> chapter-9-quietly-unraveling]]
[[Say your name out loud -> chapter-9-the-woods-listens]]The moment Dave touched the frame, the photo twisted.
Literally.
The wall behind it bent inward like soft clay. With a groan, the room folded itself open like a cardboard diorama, revealing a hallway lined with moss and writhing vines.
The air smelled like memory and gasoline.
“Welp,” Dave said. “This again.”
As he stepped through, a vine reached out and gently smacked his beer can out of his hand.
“Now it’s personal.”
[[Continue -> chapter 9]]Dave turned away from the photo, refusing to entertain any more nonsense.
But as he walked down the hallway, the wooden planks beneath his boots slowly turned to pine needles.
The paintings on the walls flickered with faces from old campfire stories—Mothman, Goatman, even that time he swore he saw Bigfoot trying to use an ATM.
The lightbulbs above hissed, and one by one, they winked out.
Dave grunted. “Feels like Tuesday.”
At the end of the hall, the cabin door swung open—revealing not the forest, but something deeper.
Something waiting.
[[Continue -> chapter 9]]Dave cleared his throat and said, “Uncle Dave.”
The fireplace puffed out.
The shadows in the cabin snapped upright like soldiers.
Then the cabin whispered back.
Not in words. Not in sound. But in memory—suddenly he was five years old, lost in the woods behind his uncle’s house, chasing a rabbit he never caught
[[continue -> chapter 9]]The trees opened like theater curtains.
Dave and Barry stepped into the clearing—a perfect circle of ash and silence, like something enormous had once landed here and erased itself.
At the center stood a totem pole made of bones, television parts, and melted cassette tapes. It pulsed like a dying heartbeat.
“The memory’s locus,” Barry muttered. “This is where it ends.”
Dave eyed the pile. “Or where it gets real stupid.”
The wind shifted. It wasn’t just blowing—it was whispering. Words, mangled by distance:
“Da-a-a-aave... you-ou-ou le-e-e-eft…”
Dave took a shaky breath. “Nope. No thanks. Not today, whisper wind.”
Barry stepped forward. “Stay focused. The Refrain pulls on memory. Regret. It’s why I couldn’t leave. It feeds on our worst moments and loops them until we forget what’s real.”
Dave stared into the swirling air.
Memories flickered like film reels—his sister laughing before the crash, Thomas as a baby gripping his finger, Melissa packing her bags, that one Taco Bell bathroom in Tampa he never spoke of.
He shook it off. “I came here for Thomas. I’m not gettin’ stuck in a cryptid flashback reel.”
A tremor shook the ground. The totem cracked open.
And something stepped out.
It had Thomas’s voice.
“Uncle Dave?”
But its face flickered like static.
Then Melissa’s voice.
Then his own.
“You forgot me.”
“You left me.”
“You failed me.”
Dave took a step back. Barry grabbed his shoulder. “It’s not real—it’s the forest wearing your guilt like a coat.”
Dave clenched his jaw. “Well it doesn’t fit.”
He hurled the lantern.
It exploded in a blast of green fire, and the illusion screamed.
The clearing shook. The trees flinched.
The air cleared.
And there, at the edge of the wood, stood Thomas—real, blinking, bruised, but alive.
Dave ran.
They collided like old ghosts reuniting.
Thomas grinned. “You came for me?”
Dave coughed. “Course I did. Who else is gonna explain this weird forest therapy session?”
Behind them, the totem burned to dust.
Barry watched, silently.
Above, the sky stilled.
The Refrain had ended.
The forest let them go.
They emerged hours later—maybe days?—at the edge of the trailhead, where an old, forgotten sign read: Appalachia Mountain Park, Closed for Good Reasons.
Dave turned to Thomas. “We never speak of this again.”
Thomas nodded. “Agreed.”
But behind them, far back where memory once screamed—
A whistle sounded. Just once.
Soft. Barely heard.
But still there.
→ END OF CHAPTER 9
[[notes from idk]]
im very tired...
i need sleep i just want to say sorry if the story feels rushed (it kinda is) im so dum :D
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