
Evelyn’s arms burned as she pulled Delaney with everything she had.
The ash beneath them felt alive now—warm, gritty, and thick like wet cement. It crawled up their boots, clinging and tightening as if invisible hands were gripping their ankles. Delaney screamed, thrashing, his fingers clawing at the ground.
“I CAN’T MOVE!” he shouted.
Evelyn planted her feet, ignoring the ash trying to swallow her soles. She wrapped both hands around Delaney’s wrists and yanked.
The ash resisted.
Then it gave.
With a sickening sucking sound, Delaney’s leg tore free. He collapsed forward, coughing, his pant leg shredded and streaked black. His ankle looked twisted, swollen already.
Evelyn dragged him away from the centre of the clearing, stumbling backward as the burned figures advanced. Their feet didn’t crunch the ash—they slid through it, weightless, like they belonged to the soil itself.
Delaney sobbed. “What are they?”
Evelyn’s voice came out strained. “They’re not alive. Not anymore.”
The burned figures reached out, hands cracked and black, fingers bent like claws. One of them brushed Evelyn’s sleeve, and the fabric instantly smouldered, curling at the edges as if touched by a hot stove.
Evelyn recoiled, heart racing. “Don’t touch them!”
Behind the figures, Cropsy moved closer.
It didn’t hurry. It never hurried.
It moved like something that had all the time in the world, like time itself was trapped in the woods with it. Its mask glowed faintly, pulsing red with every slow breath. The sound of its lungs was wrong—wet and bubbling, like air passing through rotted wood.
Delaney tried to stand, but his injured ankle buckled. He fell again, crying out.
Evelyn grabbed his collar. “Get up!”
“I can’t!” he gasped. “I can’t run!”
Evelyn looked around wildly.
The clearing was boxed in by fog and trees. The burned figures were closing the gap. Cropsy stood behind them like a king watching his servants work.
Evelyn’s mind screamed for logic, for a plan, for anything.
Then she saw it.
A small structure near the edge of the clearing, barely visible through the fog. A shed. Half-collapsed, but standing. Its door hung crookedly, the wood warped and blackened.
Evelyn pointed. “There!”
Delaney’s eyes widened. “That won’t hold them!”
“It doesn’t have to,” she snapped. “It just has to slow them down!”
She hauled him toward it. Every step was agony for him. He limped, nearly dragging his leg, but adrenaline forced him forward.
The burned figures reached for them again.
Evelyn fired her pistol into the closest one’s head.
The bullet tore through it like paper.
The figure jerked violently, its skull splitting open, but instead of blood there was ash—hot ash—pouring out like smoke. It stumbled, but still didn’t fall.
Evelyn swore under her breath and shoved Delaney through the shed door.
They stumbled inside.
The air in the shed was stale and suffocating. Old tools hung from hooks, rusted beyond use. A broken radio towered in the corner, its casing melted and warped. A generator sat near the back wall, half-buried under ash.
Delaney collapsed against the wall, panting.
Evelyn slammed the door shut and wedged a broken shovel handle through the latch.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then the scratching began.
Not outside.
Above.
The roof creaked, and ash drifted down in soft little clumps.
Evelyn looked up, heart pounding.
Something was moving on top of the shed.
Delaney whispered, “No… no…”
A heavy thump shook the ceiling.
Then another.
Then a long dragging scrape, as if claws were being pulled across the roof.
Evelyn raised her pistol, aiming upward uselessly, her finger trembling on the trigger.
Then a voice crackled to life inside the shed.
The old radio.
The melted thing in the corner sputtered, its speaker hissing with static. Evelyn spun toward it, shocked.
Delaney stared. “That thing isn’t even plugged in…”
The static grew louder, filling the shed like a swarm of insects.
Then the voice came through.
Not Cropsy’s rasp.
Not Delaney’s.
A woman’s voice.
Calm, distorted, faint.
“...Hart…? Constable Hart…?”
Evelyn froze.
Her breath caught in her throat.
That voice…
She recognised it.
“Dispatch?” she whispered.
The radio crackled again. “Hart… if you can hear me… don’t trust the fog…”
Delaney crawled closer, eyes wide with hope. “It’s real! It’s dispatch!”
Evelyn’s instincts screamed that something was wrong, but she stepped toward the radio anyway, as if drawn.
“Dispatch, this is Constable Evelyn Hart,” she said quickly. “We’re trapped in the restricted campground. We need immediate extraction, officer down—”
Static exploded.
The radio screamed.
And then the voice changed.
It twisted, deepened, broke apart like wood snapping.
It became Cropsy’s voice.
“You… called… me…”
Evelyn stumbled back, horror flooding her.
The radio hissed again, and suddenly multiple voices came through at once—Travis, Marcus Fenn, crying children, screaming adults—layered together into a nightmare chorus.
“Help me…”
“Don’t leave…”
“It’s behind you…”
Delaney covered his ears, screaming. “MAKE IT STOP!”
The shed door began to shake violently.
Not from the burned figures.
From something heavier.
The roof groaned, bending inward.
Ash rained down like black snow.
Evelyn looked up just in time to see the ceiling crack.
A hand punched through.
A massive, burned hand.
Fingers like roots.
The hand tore downward, ripping open the roof as if it were paper.
Cropsy’s glowing eyes appeared in the hole, staring down at them through the melted mask.
Its voice came softly, almost lovingly.
“Found… you…”
Delaney sobbed, scrambling backward.
Evelyn raised her pistol and fired directly into Cropsy’s face.
The bullet struck the mask.
Sparks flew.
The mask didn’t break.
Cropsy laughed.
And the shed began to collapse around them.
Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model