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Day Four:

By some miracle—or perhaps sheer luck—we had survived the first three days of our so-called documentary journey.

No one had been eaten by wild animals, fallen off a cliff, or gotten lost in a dimension where intelligent decisions were mandatory.

But the real challenge came on day three when we actually had to do what we were here for: document nature. Or else the trip would be terminated.

Mr. Dax, still blissfully unaware that half of us had been sneaking out every night, announced that we’d be spending the day in Whispering Thicket, a dense woodland famous for its massive trees, weird glowing mushrooms, and absolutely terrifying silence.

Somewhat like the forest from the other day but with different species.

"Ah yes," Joy said as we stepped into the woods, arms stretched out dramatically. "Nature. So peaceful. So quiet. So full of unknown dangers waiting to murder us."

"You just had to say it," Shun muttered.

Ethan, standing way too close to me as usual, smirked. "Relax. If anything does attack us, Ghost boy here will probably be the first to go."

"Why me?" I frowned.

"You're small, slow, and your survival instincts are questionable at best."

"That’s—" I paused. "Okay, fair."

Mia set up her camera while Fred wandered in circles, muttering about “perfect lighting” like we were shooting a Hollywood blockbuster.

Meanwhile, the jocks—being led by Max—treated the assignment like a summer camp free-for-all: climbing trees, chucking rocks into bushes, and nearly breaking a limb every five minutes.

We were so getting a failing grade.

At first, things ran semi-smoothly. Joy, armed with the confidence of someone wildly unqualified to host a nature documentary, grabbed the camera from Mia and launched into the script I’d written—as if she were broadcasting live from some elite wildlife network.

Honestly, I was just relieved. She'd taken the spotlight, and all I had to do now was stand back and suppress the screaming perfectionist inside me.

"Here we have the mystical glowing mushrooms," Joy whispered dramatically, zooming in on the neon fungi. "Do they grant powers? Cause hallucinations? Explode when touched? Nobody knows. But we—"

Fred leaned in, squinting. "Wait, are they moving?"

The mushrooms wiggled.

Then they jumped.

Fred screamed. Joy screamed. Max threw a rock at them, making them glow even brighter.

"Why would you throw something?!" I yelled.

"You always throw something!"

"That’s not how science works!"

Meanwhile, Ethan just stood there laughing. Laughing.

In the end, we did not get footage of the glowing mushrooms—just footage of us running away while Mia tried to salvage the camera.

Later, we attempted to document the rare silver-striped dusk beetles, a species known for glowing faintly under the moonlight. The plan? Simple. Set up the camera, stay quiet, and wait.

The execution? A complete disaster.

"Clark, don’t move," Shun whispered, eyes widening as she looked at my shoulder.

I froze. "Why?"

"You have a little something on you," she said carefully.

"Define little."

Before she could answer, Mia gasped. "Oh my gods, don’t freak out—"

"THAT ONLY MAKES ME FREAK OUT!"

I glanced down.

There, sitting comfortably on my shoulder, was the biggest, ugliest, most disgustingly detailed bug I had ever seen. Its iridescent shell shimmered under the neon glow, its long legs shifting slightly as if getting too comfortable.

Why did it always have to be me?

"GET IT OFF. GET IT OFF. GET IT OFF!" I shrieked, flailing.

The beetle, clearly offended, launched itself into my hair.

Absolute mayhem erupted.

Joy screamed. Max, for some stupid reason, laughed. Shun, ever the problem solver, tried to smack it away, but that only made it burrow deeper.

"STOP HELPING!" I yelled, spinning in circles like a malfunctioning wind-up toy.

"Ghost boy, stand still!" Ethan barked, grabbing my arm.

"I CAN'T, I'M IN A LIFE-OR-DEATH SITUATION!"

And then—because life hated me—the bug decided that flying was its next course of action. It shot off my head and directly toward Fred.

"NOPE—" Fred threw his bag at Joy and ran.

"THIS IS YOUR FAULT!" Joy yelled, barely catching it.

In the end, after an exhausting five minutes of running, screaming, and Mia somehow managing to capture every embarrassing moment on film, the beetle finally left us alone.

Did we get good footage? No.

Did Mia at least salvage something from the mess? Somehow, yes.

Would I ever recover from the trauma? Absolutely not.

Day Five:

The day had gone by in a blur. More filming, more research, more stupid near-death experiences courtesy of my so-called alliances.

Joy almost fell into a ditch trying to record a "dramatic zoom-in.

" Max threw a rock at what he swore was a ghost but turned out to be a plastic bag.

And Ethan? He nearly triggered an avalanche by yelling “YOLO” into a canyon.

If we survived this trip, I was writing a memoir and selling it to a trauma therapist.

By the time we got to the motel, I could barely keep my eyes open. I collapsed onto the thin mattress, still half-dressed, my backpack doubling as a pillow. Conversations faded. Laughter dulled. Eventually, even Ethan’s humming from across the room went silent.

But as soon as I closed my eyes, I felt it creeping in.

The darkness. The familiar cold grip of fear, slithering over my skin like frostbite in mid-July.

I was back in that cellar.

Trapped. Starving. Surrounded by rot and silence so thick it pressed against my ears.

My wrists ached with the phantom bite of rope. The air smelled like mold, rust, and something worse—something metallic and thick, like old blood.

I heard the distorted voice of my stepfather—his monstrous form towering over me, barely human. His shadow moved unnaturally against the walls, stretching when he didn’t. His eyes glowed, not like fire, but like poison—wrong and knowing.

He was speaking, but the words came out warped, twisted like a broken record—scraping through my mind instead of my ears. I tried to move. I couldn’t. I was five years old again.

The memories clawed at my chest, threatening to drag me down.

I couldn’t breathe.

I gasped awake, drenched in sweat, hands shaking.

Ethan was sitting on his bed, staring at me.

I opened my mouth, but I didn’t know what to say.

"You talk in your sleep," he said.

I stiffened. "I—"

"Didn’t sound fun." His voice wasn’t teasing this time.

I swallowed, my throat dry. "It’s nothing."

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Right. ‘Nothing’ totally explains why you look like you’ve seen a ghost."

I avoided his gaze, looking at my hands instead. My nails were biting into my palms. I didn’t even realize I’d clenched my fists.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then, quietly, he muttered, "It’s not weakness, you know. Having nightmares."

I looked up.

He wasn’t looking at me anymore—just staring at the floor, his fingers tapping absently against his leg.

He knew.

Maybe he didn’t know exactly what haunted me, but he understood the feeling. The weight of something you couldn’t shake off.

For once, I felt like I wasn’t alone.

Day six:

We were filming a peaceful lake scene when a group of geese decided to declare World War III on a poor, unsuspecting duck.

Mia got it all on film. Close-up.

Max tried to "intervene" (read: he ran in screaming like an action movie hero). He got chased instead.

Joy: "And here, we witness natural selection in action."

By the time we escaped, we were out of breath, out of dignity, and out of faith in the animal kingdom.

That night, I had another nightmare. But this time, when I woke up, Ethan was there. He didn’t say anything, just sat on the edge of my bed.

He didn’t have to say anything.

Day Seven:

We barely survived filming mudskippers, Max almost got swallowed by the wetlands, and Mia now had blackmail material for years. I could still hear Joy’s dramatic narration in my head:

"And here, we see a jock, completely defeated by nature…"

Max was still grumbling about it by nightfall, muttering curses every time someone so much as mentioned mud.

That night, I snuck out with Ethan again. It was almost too natural now. We wandered through the quiet streets, sharing random thoughts, kicking pebbles like kids with no responsibilities.

It was… nice.

And then I saw it.

A flicker of light. A snap.

I turned, my heart pounding, but—nothing. Just empty darkness.

I told myself I imagined it, but I knew better.

Day Eight:

Our money situation was so bad that Joy suggested, “Maybe we should just eat grass, y’know, like the majestic herbivores we admire.”

Max deadpanned. “I will push you into a swamp.”

She grinned like that was exactly what she wanted.

We managed to find a decent meal (if you could call instant noodles “decent”—mine tasted like depression with a hint of artificial chicken) and pressed on with our documentary.

More filming. More wildlife. More Max being attacked by nature in some shape or form—this time it was a squirrel that mistook his hoodie strings for twigs.

Mia caught it on camera. Joy’s laugh echoed for miles.

Ethan, naturally, flirted with trees. Not metaphorically. He literally told a birch it had “divine bark structure.” Shun said nothing, just recorded the audio like a silent judge.

Night fell like a curtain on a bad stage play. The team drove to a temporary lodging—a sad, squeaky-floored motel that smelled vaguely like expired pine cleaner and broken dreams.

The room Ethan and I were assigned was small—two twin beds, one flickering ceiling light, and wallpaper that was definitely peeling out of spite. Ethan flopped on his bed dramatically, like a prince cursed to live among peasants.

“I call dibs on the hot water,” he announced.

I groaned, “okay, Mr. Clean.”

“It's not my fault you smell like a dead rat.”

I rolled my eyes and pretended to scroll through my notes, though really, I was watching him. Not in a creepy way—more like a scientific observation. He had this annoying habit of tossing his hair every few minutes, like he was in a shampoo commercial sponsored by chaos.

At some point, he fell asleep mid-rant about tree spirits or cheerleader ghosts (I wasn’t sure which—he switches topics like TV channels). I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, hearing his soft, uneven breathing.

And I didn’t mind.

Day Nine:

We only had one job.

Just one.

Film a rare bird species at sunrise. That was it. Get in, roll the camera, catch the majestic flapping of wings against golden light, and go home with enough footage to “wow” the judges and maybe, just maybe, put Paramount High on the map.

But no.

Instead?

We got chaos. Pure, unfiltered, award-winning chaos.

It started with me—of course it did. One second, I was walking through the underbrush, trying to act like I belonged in nature (I didn’t), and the next… crunch . Something long, scaly, and definitely alive slithered under my sneaker.

I looked down.

A snake.

A whole, actual snake.

I screamed like a man being hunted. The sound I made wasn’t human—it was a banshee-choking-on-bubblegum kind of scream.

Birds took off. Mia dropped the camera. Joy shrieked in response, even though she was three feet away and nowhere near the snake.

Then she tried to run, got her foot caught on a root, and face-planted into the dirt like gravity had a personal vendetta.

Max? Max looked like he’d trained for this moment his entire life. I blinked and he was already halfway up a tree, clutching a branch like a terrified koala.

Meanwhile, Ethan stood a few feet away with his arms crossed, completely unfazed. Classic Ethan. Tall, broad-shouldered, annoyingly good-looking—and apparently incapable of panic.

I stumbled backward, nearly falling into a bush, one shoe missing and dignity bleeding out fast.

And that was it. That was the level of support I got from the team’s golden boy.

Eventually, Shun swooped in like the unsung heroine she is.

Calm, collected, and somehow immune to both reptiles and ridiculousness.

Or maybe the snake wasn't poisonous, and I had missed that part of the memo.

She directed us back into formation. Mia recovered the camera.

Joy spat out dirt. Max climbed down with the grace of a traumatized possum.

And I… I found my missing shoe in a patch of suspicious wild-flowers.

By the time the sun had properly risen, our chance at filming the rare bird was long gone. It had probably migrated to another continent to escape our nonsense.

The footage? Mediocre at best. Blurry. Shaky. Possibly haunted.

Our budget? Still nonexistent.

Morale? Hanging by a thread made of expired granola bars and Joy’s off-key singing.

But oddly enough, despite everything, my nightmares were starting to fade. Slowly. Gradually. Like fog lifting off a lake at dawn.

Still… sometimes, when the group laughed and I let myself smile—really smile—I’d catch it. That flicker. A glint in the corner of my vision. A flash, too quick to catch. Like the reflection of a camera lens… watching.

Hidden in the dark.

I hadn’t seen my stepdad again. Not since that night.

But sometimes—when the trees whispered just right, or the wind stopped too suddenly—I felt it.

That I wasn’t alone.

That something was still watching me.

Day Ten:

We were broke. And by broke, I mean Joy actually suggested selling Max to a local merchant—which, frankly, I was starting to consider.

Our food situation? Laughable. Our documentary? Even more laughable.

At this point, we were just recording anything. A squirrel? Nature. A weird-looking rock? Nature. Max tripping over his own feet? Nature at its finest.

At night, I snuck out with Ethan again.

I tried to avoid him. Really, I did. But somehow, by the end of the night, I was still walking beside him, listening to his stupid jokes, enjoying the quiet moments that I shouldn’t be enjoying.