The Others

In the Eye of the Beholder

The nights slipped by like threads of shadow, weaving Fern and Oliver's secret meetings into a fragile tapestry of shared moments. Beneath the moon's pale gaze, the lake shimmered, a hidden world only they could inhabit. By the lake, where the water shimmered beneath the moon, they fed the fish together.

 As Fern scattered breadcrumbs, Oliver tilted his head, listening to the soft plip of fish surfacing. He smiled, picturing their quick movements in the still night. "They're quick tonight," he said, his hand reaching out to feel the cool spray of water as one fish splashed a little too close to shore. He couldn't see it, but the lake painted itself for him in sound and sensation.

 The stillness between them was comfortable, punctuated by their quiet laughter.

When they weren't feeding the fish, they spent time skipping rocks—or in Oliver's case, flinging them wildly, revelling in the satisfying clatter when they hit something far off. "Did I hit it?" Oliver asked, grinning after launching a rock into the distance. Fern giggled, her hands playfully on her hips. "You're nowhere near," she teased, watching his expression light up with mock offence.

Other nights, they splashed in the shallows of the lake, carefree as the water soaked their legs. They talked about their families, though Fern was careful with her words. She had secrets she couldn't share—ones that lay heavy on her chest. But so did he. There was a mutual understanding between them, an unspoken agreement that some things were best left unsaid. They liked to think of themselves as "partners in crime," sneaking away under the cover of darkness for these stolen moments. Neither family knew. Neither family could know.

Despite the friendship they had forged, there were moments when the air between them would shift—when Fern would catch her breath as his hand brushed hers, or when Oliver's smile lingered just a bit too long. But they never crossed that line. Not yet.

Like the beginning to all their usual nights, the air was thick tonight, heavy in a way that made her skin prickle. As Fern ventured deeper into the woods, something felt wrong. The usual stillness was absent, replaced by an unsettling tension.

She wasn't alone.

Her heart pounded, her pulse quickening as panic rose in her chest. She started to run, the soft earth giving way beneath her feet. Every shadow seemed alive, the dark twisting into shapes her mind desperately wanted to ignore. But she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was there—watching, waiting. The hunters. She thought of them immediately, the word striking fear deep inside her. The stories Oliver had told replayed in her head. She had to get away.

Not thinking, panic surged in Fern as she veered off the path, branches clawing at her arms, her breath sharp and ragged. Dark figures cut through the trees ahead, their murmurs riding the wind. Her heart slammed against her ribs—too close. She crouched low, breath catching in her throat as footsteps crept nearer. They were closer than she realised, too close.  Her back pressed to a tree, her pulse hammering in her ears as the soft crunch of footsteps drew nearer. A twig snapped, and Fern bit her lip to keep from crying out. 

She could hear them now, talking in hushed tones about their next target. Someone like her. Just as the panic rose in her chest, an arm shot out from the shadows, yanking her into the cover of thick bushes.

She gasped but was silenced by a familiar face. Gracie.

Gracie crouched beside her, pressing a finger to her lips, signalling her to be quiet. Fern's heart pounded in her chest as they both listened, motionless, for the footsteps to fade away. The hunters had passed.

Once the silence returned, Gracie let out a quiet sigh of relief and released Fern's wrist. Fern, still stunned, could only stare at her sister, her voice shaky when she finally spoke.