We sit in silence for what feels like hours, though it’s only minutes. Cece sips at the glass of water I brought her, her hands trembling so badly she spills some on the couch. I don’t move to wipe it.

Finally, she speaks. Her voice is small, like it’s been crushed under the weight of something enormous.

“They took me to the forest,” she says, her words slow and deliberate, like they’re being dragged out of her. “The Purple Forest.”

“I thought it was over. I thought I was going to die. And I almost did. But then...” She swallows hard, her fingers digging into her knees. “I woke up. Alone. And there were bodies, Nyx. Everywhere. Just... bodies. They were hanging from the trees, lying on the ground... It was like some kind of nightmare.”

My stomach churns, but I force myself to stay calm. 

Cece’s eyes dart to the window, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The Claw.”

The name sends a chill down my spine. Everyone in our town knows the legend. A shadowy figure in a plague doctor mask that hunts between November 1st and December 23rd. But it’s just a story. Isn’t it? It must be.

“It’s not just one person,” she continues, her voice trembling. “And they’re not just killers—they’re... something worse. I don’t know what they want or why they let me go, but I think...” She swallows, her voice breaking. “I think they want me back.”

I can’t breathe. The room feels smaller, the walls closing in.

“That’s not possible,” I say, shaking my head. “The Claw is just a stupid urban legend. It’s not real.”

Cece fixes me with a haunted stare, her eyes hollow. “Does this look like a legend to you?” She rolls up her sleeve, revealing a jagged scar running the length of her forearm.

I feel like I’m going to throw up.

Before I can respond, her phone buzzes on the table. We both freeze, staring at the screen. It’s a message, and it makes Cece’s face drain of all color.

“Come back to the forest. Finish what was started.”

The forest loomed ahead of us like the mouth of a yawning beast, the trees twisted and gnarled, their branches reaching out like skeletal hands. The headlights of my car illuminated the dirt path, but only barely. Beyond that, the darkness seemed alive, pulsing with something I couldn’t name.

“You’re sure about this?” I whispered, my voice trembling.

Cece sat beside me, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. She hadn’t stopped shaking since we left my apartment. “No,” she admitted. “But we have to.”

Her phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up in the dark cabin of the car. The same message, repeated:
“Come back to the forest. Finish what was started.”

Every time it appeared, Cece’s breathing hitched. Every time, it felt like the air around us grew colder.

“We don’t have to do this tonight,” I said, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ached. “We could tell someone. The cops, the FBI—”

“They won’t believe us,” Cece interrupted, her voice hollow. “They didn’t believe me three years ago. They’ll just think we’re crazy.”

I wanted to argue, but she was right. No one would believe that The Claw was real, let alone that it had spared her.

The car bumped along the uneven road, the forest growing denser with every passing second. Finally, the path ended, and I killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening.

“We walk from here,” Cece said, her voice barely above a whisper.

We stepped out of the car, the cold night air biting at our skin. I pulled my jacket tighter around me as we made our way into the trees, our flashlights casting long, eerie shadows on the ground.

The deeper we went, the stranger the forest became. The trees seemed to twist unnaturally, their bark blackened and cracked. A thick mist clung to the ground, swirling around our ankles.

“Do you hear that?” Cece whispered, her voice tight.

I strained my ears. At first, there was nothing but the sound of our footsteps crunching on dead leaves. Then I heard it—a faint, rhythmic creaking, like the sound of a rope swaying in the wind.

I stopped in my tracks. “Cece, what is that?”

She didn’t answer. Her flashlight beam trembled as she scanned the trees.

And then I saw it.

A figure hanging from one of the branches, its head tilted at an unnatural angle, its limbs limp. I gasped, stumbling backward, but Cece grabbed my arm.

“Don’t look,” she said urgently.

But I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The figure was a man, his face contorted in a grotesque expression of terror. Around his neck was a noose, frayed and ancient. His clothes were tattered, his skin pale and waxy.

“We have to keep going,” Cece said, pulling me forward. “We’re close.”