It was just like any other night. The sky was a deep, undisturbed blue, and stars scattered across it, twinkling like quiet flames over the vast prairie below. The air was thick with the rhythmic drone of cicadas, their chirping mingling with the steady whisper of a cold wind drifting down from the mountains. The scent of pine lingered, and the night had a rare, almost mystical stillness.
Joany, Clarice, Vin, Cris, and I were outside our houses, drawn into the open by the brilliance of the full moon. Its light blanketed the mountain, casting a pale, silver glow that turned even shadows soft. I can't recall exactly what we were laughing about; maybe it didn't matter. We were just lost in the easy warmth of the night. It was supposed to be peaceful. It was supposed to be safe.
Clarice saw it first—the shadows creeping from the forest edge, silent and barely discernible against the darkened treeline. Dozens of them, then hundreds, gathering in the dimness. We didn't understand, not at first, what we were witnessing. Not until the growls reached us, low and guttural, like the earth itself had begun to snarl.
The ground trembled beneath our feet as they surged from the woods, a massive wave of bodies tearing across the fields, as unstoppable as a tsunami.
Screams cut through the night, sharp and desperate, quickly swallowed by the sickening sounds of flesh ripping, bones snapping, blood splattering. The air filled with metallic tang as the wind carried the stench of iron to the once-silent hill where we stood frozen, powerless. Below us, blood slicked the streets, glistening darkly under the moon's cold light.
It was the night Silent Valley became truly silent.
