A Night in the Woods (Creepypasta/Marble Hornets x Reader)

Instance #3 (13 Years-Old)

I wake up shivering, drenched through my thin layers, with no shoes on. On my either side, the street is black and empty, swathed in heavy gray fog banks that shimmer beneath weak, ghostly street lamps. I'm not. . . I don't know where I am. I don't even know how I got here!

On sore, protesting limbs, I wearily climb to my feet. There are no sounds of distant cars, no signs of any houses. . . There is nothing at all. Only pavement and trees and this eerie, silent fog. A road in the middle of nowhere.

Honestly, this isn't the first time that something odd like this has happened to me. But that never makes it any less. . . confusing. Or any less frightening. I wrap my scratched-up arms around my stomach, tears burning at the corners of my eyes.

If I pick a direction to follow and stick to it, I'm bound to find something. . . right? A street sign? A building? A pay-phone? Maybe. . ?

Stray pebbles and bits of asphalt dig into my feet, sending painful shocks up my bare legs. The fog is cold, dripping like ice through my clothes as I fight to keep from crying. Why? I don't. . . I don't understand. What's wrong with me? Not even the really expensive doctors that my parents keep bringing me to have any idea. Aren't they supposed to be experts?

I hate this. I want to go home. Please. . . someone, anyone, find me out here. Please -?

Hunching my shoulders, I slowly, steadily, soldier on through the darkest night. I'm not sure how much time passes before it happens, but it seems like weeks. It creeps up on me like a bad feeling, an unpleasant tension gradually crawling up my muscles, and an inexplicable heaviness pressing against my ribs. A familiar feeling. A terrible feeling.

When I try to catch my breath, I sputter and choke. All the hairs along my neck are on-edge, and a slick, coiling sensation like a snake winds its way down my spine.

It's behind me. I know it, and I don't even have to check. It's there, and it's watching. It's. . . always watching.

A rush of heat stings my face; the tears are now falling freely as I stumble forward. Don't turn around, don't turn around. Oh, God. Whatever you do, do not turn around. . . Scrambling and desperate, my thoughts blank and white-hot with fear, I bolt down the middle of the road, as fast as my legs can carry me. Don't turn around, don'tturnaround. . !

I gasp out a sob, the wind whipping my wet clothes and slicing me straight through. "Help me!" I scream into the fog. "Someone, please! I need help!"

All that answers me is my own harsh, unsteady breathing.

I run for so long that my legs grow weak and shaky, that the air being forced into my lungs feels like glass shards and smoke. It hurts. Everything hurts. I can't. . . I have to. . . A strange noise is whispering in my ear, a radio station with little reception. A crackle, a static, a dull murmur of white noise. . . is it getting louder -? What is it saying. . ?

I see it, then. Through a haze of fog and tears and glittering pain. Suddenly, standing there, at the end of the road. Still and silent, tall and black. A black so dark, it seems endless. A black so dark. . . it seems to devour the night glistening around it. No eyes. Always watching.

My heels slip and skid along the pavement. The world tips end-over-end. Ripped clothes, torn skin, and an explosion of agony when I slam into the ground. My head feels. . . lopsided. I can taste a wet warmth in my mouth, thick and coppery between chipped teeth. Dazed, I try to lift my chin. . . and the noise in my ears swells to a piercing crescendo.

I'm only thirteen years-old. I shouldn't know what death is like. I shouldn't actually want to die. But in that instant, lost and crying and bleeding out across the quiet, lonely street, all I want is for everything to stop. I don't even care how.

I think I might be sick. Or pass out. Or both. The trees are splotchy-red and fuzzy, and. . . is that. . ? What -?

It's hard to see very well, but it looks like a boy is standing in front of me. Dark hair, dark clothes? I don't know. He gets down on a knee and offers out a blurry hand. Firm, cold fingers cling to my slick and clumsy, and I feel a tiny flicker of strength return to my veins at his touch. His grip tightens; I try to squeeze back, and. . . I feel something soft and bright come to life in this endless darkness. Something almost like hope as the air begins to clear.

I'm not alone. I'm not alone.