The Horror of the Wild

The wind howled like a wild beast as you walked towards the cabin, iron key in hand. It clawed past the dense group of trees, scratched up the dirt and leaves, biting at your exposed skin. A man stands behind you, floating, not walking. Man seems to be the wrong word. It was something, something much more sinister than man. Its face was too sharp, too perfect, like something drawn hastily in a dream and made flesh. 

“You’ll go in,” it voiced, the sound low and heavy as if it carried the weight of darkness itself. “And if you’re wise, you won’t look back.”

The iron key in your hand starts to shake with quiet power. You didn’t ask what would happen if you turned around. You knew. You always knew, in the way dreams teach you truths you wish you didn’t carry.

The cabin door drew closer and closer as you walked, its edges warping and rippling. Your lantern flickered, casting jagged shadows that twisted and danced. Once you arrived at the door, you picked up the heavy lock, it's engraved vines digging into your palm. You slipped the key into the lock, and the door shuddered violently, as if feeling freedom breathe in its face. When you turned it, the sound wasn’t metal on metal but the low groan of a wounded animal. You pushed, and the door swung inward.

The cabin was colder than the wild wind outside. It smelled of flesh and rot, of wet earth and the coppery tang of blood freshly spilled. Your boots creaked against the warping floorboards, and the door slammed shut behind you, cutting off the wind. The silence inside was the quiet of a predator, watching, waiting, about to pounce. 

“Welcome,” a voice rasped. It was a whisper, yet it felt like it shook your nerves till they fried.

You turned toward the back of the room, where the shadows curled together like smoke. There, a figure began to take shape: a creature older than time. Its limbs stretched too long, its mouth too wide, lined with teeth that gleamed like shattered glass. Instead of eyes, it had holes carved into its skull. 

“You’ve come far,” it said, voice crackling like a dying fire. “Brought your iron and your courage, I see. But will it be enough? We don’t want a repeat of last time, hero.”

You didn’t answer. You found that you couldn’t answer, as your mouth felt like it’s been sewed shut. Instead, you drew the knife from your belt—a blade as cold and sharp as the key, its edge serrated and sharp enough to cut through light. The thing laughed, and its vibrations sent a fracture through your bones.

“Did you think we’d fight?” it asked. “Want to sever the cords that bind me? You’re foolish, little one.”

But it didn’t move. The shadows around it pulsed, flickering. You stepped closer, the knife trembling in your grip. The key hung from your wrist now, its chain digging into your skin, the iron hissing as it met the ends of the shadow. 

“You know what I am,” the creature said, leaning forward. Its breath was like fire and ruin, filling your lungs with smoke and impulsiveness. “You know why they sent you. But you don’t know the cost.”

You raised the blade, its edge catching the faint glow of the lantern outside the warped window. The creature hissed, recoiling slightly, but its hollowed ‘eyes’ never left yours.

“I do,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I know the cost.”