There Are Three Types of People

𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢

As the fleshy infection receded from Gloomsville, leaving behind a residue of unease and lingering questions, our trio of unlikely heroes found themselves drawn to a new adventure. Prudence "Prude" Pumpernickel, ever the logical thinker, had suggested a camping trip to clear their minds and gather data on the town's recent supernatural occurrences. Mortimer "Morty" Blunderbuss, with his penchant for poor decisions, enthusiastically agreed, while Chuckles McGee simply grinned and muttered something about "plot progression."

The crisp mountain air bit at their faces as they trudged through the snow-covered forest. Prude consulted her map, brow furrowed in concentration. "According to my calculations, we should reach the campsite in about an hour."

Morty, already shivering despite his layers, nodded vigorously. "G-great! I can't wait to get the t-tent set up and start a nice, warm fire."

Chuckles, who seemed impervious to the cold, strolled casually behind them, whistling a jaunty tune. "You know, folks," he said to no one in particular, "I've got a feeling this little excursion might take an unexpected turn. But don't worry, I'm sure we'll make it through... well, most of us, anyway."

Prude shot him a quizzical look. "What do you mean, 'most of us'?"

But before Chuckles could respond, a bone-chilling howl echoed through the trees, causing all three to freeze in their tracks.

"W-what was that?" Morty stammered, his eyes wide with fear.

Prude, ever rational, tried to calm him. "It's probably just the wind, or perhaps a wolf in the distance. Nothing to worry about."

Chuckles, however, had an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. "I wouldn't be so sure about that, Prude. Sometimes, the most terrifying things are the ones rooted in reality."

As they continued their trek, the forest seemed to close in around them. The trees, once picturesque in their snow-laden beauty, now loomed ominously, their branches reaching out like gnarled fingers. The wind picked up, carrying with it whispers that sounded almost... human.

Finally, they reached a small clearing that seemed suitable for camping. As they began to set up their tent, Prude couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. She glanced around nervously, her logical mind struggling to explain the prickling sensation on the back of her neck.

Morty, in a rare moment of competence, managed to get a fire going. The flames cast flickering shadows across the snow, creating an eerie dance of light and darkness. As they huddled around the fire for warmth, Chuckles began to speak, his voice uncharacteristically somber.

"Did I ever tell you about the Dyatlov Pass Incident?" he asked, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames.

Prude shook her head. "I don't believe so. What is it?"

Chuckles leaned in, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "It happened in 1959, not far from here. Nine experienced hikers ventured into these mountains... but only five bodies were ever found."

Morty gulped audibly. "W-what happened to them?"

"No one knows for sure," Chuckles continued, his usual jovial tone replaced by an unsettling gravity. "Their tent was found ripped open from the inside. They had fled into the night, barefoot and barely dressed, despite the freezing temperatures. Some had crushed skulls, others had missing eyes and tongues."

Prude felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. "That's... that's terrible. But surely there must be a logical explanation."

Chuckles shrugged. "Maybe. But some say it was something not of this world. Something that still roams these mountains, waiting for unsuspecting victims."

As if on cue, another howl pierced the night air, closer this time. Morty yelped, nearly falling into the fire in his fright.

"It's just the wind," Prude insisted, though her voice lacked conviction. "We should get some rest. I'll take first watch."

As Morty and Chuckles retreated to the tent, Prude stared into the darkness beyond the firelight. The logical part of her mind insisted that there was nothing to fear, that Chuckles' story was just that – a story. But as the wind whispered through the trees and shadows danced at the edge of her vision, she couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom.

Hours passed, and Prude's eyelids grew heavy. Just as she was about to wake Morty for his shift, a twig snapped in the forest. She jerked to attention, her heart pounding. "Hello?" she called out, her voice trembling slightly. "Is someone there?"

Silence answered her, broken only by the crackling of the dying fire. Then, just at the edge of the firelight, she saw it – a figure, tall and misshapen, its outline blurring as if it wasn't quite solid. Prude blinked hard, certain her tired mind was playing tricks on her. But when she opened her eyes, the figure was closer, its featureless face now clearly visible.

Prude scrambled to her feet, her mouth opening to scream, but no sound came out. The figure raised a hand, impossibly long fingers reaching for her. In that moment, all logic fled her mind, replaced by primal terror.

She turned to run, to wake the others, but her foot caught on a root. She fell hard, the cold snow biting into her face. As she struggled to her feet, she felt something grab her ankle. Looking back, she saw not the strange figure, but the ground itself seeming to reach up and pull her down.

"Morty! Chuckles!" she finally managed to scream, her voice echoing through the silent forest. But as the snow enveloped her, dragging her deeper into the earth, she realized help wasn't coming. Her last thought, before the darkness took her, was of the irony – that she, the logical one, would fall victim to something so utterly illogical.

Inside the tent, Morty and Chuckles awoke to the sound of Prude's scream. They burst out into the clearing, but found only an empty campsite. The fire had gone out, and a fresh layer of snow covered the ground, unmarred by footprints.

"Prude?" Morty called out, his voice shaking. "Prude, where are you?"

Chuckles stood silent, his usual grin replaced by a grim expression. He knew, in the way that only someone aware of their own narrative could know, that Prude was gone. The story had taken an unexpected turn, veering from comedy into true horror.

As the wind howled around them and unseen eyes watched from the darkness, Morty turned to Chuckles, his face pale with fear. "What do we do now?"

Chuckles sighed heavily, "I didn't expec... well, t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕ s̠҉͍͊ͅḣ̖̻͛̓o̯̱̊͊͢w̦̺̐̐͟ ḿ̬̏ͤͅư̡͕̭̇s̠҉͍͊ͅt̲̂̓ͩ̑ ĝ̽̓̀͑o̯̱̊͊͢ o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍."

As dawn broke over the mountains, casting an eerie red glow across the snow, Morty and Chuckles began the long trek back to Gloomsville. But something had changed. The lightness was gone from their banter, replaced by a heavy silence. For in the depths of those mountains, they had encountered true horror – the kind that leaves no room for laughter.

But little did they know, this was just the beginning. For in Gloomsville, where reality bends and nightmares come to life, the line between comedy and horror is thinner than they could ever imagine. And somewhere in the shadows, watching and waiting, lurked the true architect of their misfortunes – a figure whose identity would shake the very foundations of their world.

But that, dear reader, is a story for another chapter. For now, let us mourn the loss of %_P̧͕̒̊͘ᵣ̴̨̦͕̝ᵁ̠҉̷̙ͦD̶͔̭̪̻ẹ̿͋̒̕*#, and wonder what terrors await our remaining heroes in the chapters to come.