The moon hung low, a silver crescent veiled by shifting clouds, casting a dim, flickering light over the dense forest. The woods were eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves in the cool breeze. Lydia's heart pounded in her chest, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as she sprinted between the trees. The undergrowth tugged at her ankles, branches clawing at her skin, but she couldn't stop. Not now. Not with that thing behind her.

She glanced back over her shoulder, a fleeting look into the shadows she wished she hadn’t taken. A shiver ran through her spine as she spotted the pale figure slipping silently between the trees, no more than a ghostly outline in the mist. Its hollow eyes seemed to lock onto hers even from a distance, and those terrible red tendrils, twisted like grotesque vines, writhed as though tasting the air, searching for her. 

Lydia’s legs burned, but she forced herself to run faster, weaving between towering oaks and low-hanging branches. The forest was dense, but familiar. She had grown up exploring these woods, knew every trail and hidden path. She just needed to get to the old hunter’s cabin—it was close, a safe place where she could hide.

Behind her, the creature moved with a disturbing grace, its emaciated limbs stretching unnaturally long as it crept after her. It didn’t need to hurry; its prey was tiring. The tendrils, pulsing with a dim red glow, slithered along the ground, brushing against the leaves like fingers searching for her warmth. The creature never made a sound, but Lydia could feel its presence closing in, a creeping cold that seemed to steal the breath from her lungs.

A branch snapped underfoot, and Lydia let out a small cry as she stumbled, her ankle twisting painfully. She bit down on her lip to keep from screaming and pushed herself up, limping now but refusing to stop. She could hear the faint whisper of movement behind her—closer, much closer now. It was coming.

The mist thickened, swirling around her, as if trying to swallow her whole. The cabin had to be near. Just a little further, she told herself. But then, from the corner of her eye, she saw something dart between the trees. Her breath caught in her throat as the pale form of the creature emerged from the fog, blocking her path. 

Its eyes, empty voids of darkness, were fixed on her, and the red tendrils, slick with some unholy essence, stretched toward her like the arms of death itself. Lydia backed away, her heart racing, but there was nowhere left to run. 

The creature didn’t move, but its tendrils crept forward, brushing against the fallen leaves, snaking closer and closer to her feet. She could see the jagged lines of its exposed teeth, as though it was grinning in anticipation. Desperation clawed at her throat as she searched for something—anything—to fight back with, but there was nothing. Just cold earth and empty trees.

With a sudden burst of movement, the tendrils shot forward, wrapping around her leg. The touch was cold, far colder than any living thing, and it burned as though ice had pierced her skin. Lydia screamed, thrashing, but the tendrils only tightened, pulling her toward the creature with a slow, inevitable force. She clawed at the dirt, at the roots, anything she could grasp, but it was useless. The creature tilted its head, watching her struggle with an almost curious stillness.

The last thing Lydia saw before the mist swallowed her completely was the red glow of the creature’s tendrils, coiling around her body like a predator savoring its prey. The forest returned to its silence, the fog thickening, and the creature melted back into the trees, carrying its prize with it. The woods were quiet again, as if nothing had ever stirred.