Page 7 of Run, Little Doe

If I touch her, I’ll lose control.

If I don’t, I’ll lose my mind.

Her fingers tighten on the camera, knuckles pale against the black strap. I wonder if she realizes how she trembles — not from fear, but fromknowing,fromwanting.

There’s a kind of recognition between us — feral and impossible to ignore.

She doesn’t realize who I am, not yet. But some part of her does. The wild part. The one that used to run through these woods before people forgot how to fear the dark. The one who’s confided secrets I dare not repeat.

I take another step. The ground crackles beneath my boots, and she inhales sharply. The sound nearly undoes me.

“Run,” I whisper. Not a threat. A promise.

Sirena

The word hits me like a strike of lightning.

Run.

It echoes through the trees, low and rough, wrapping around me like smoke. For a moment, I can’t move — every muscle trembling, my breath caught somewhere between my throat and my chest. The air feels too thick to swallow, yet too sharp to breathe.

He’s close. I can feel it — the heat of him, the weight of his gaze pressing against my skin, his warm breath on the back of my neck.

Run.

My pulse answers before my mind does. My legs move on their own volition.

The forest swallows me whole. Twigs snap beneath my boots; leaves kick up against my calves. I wasn’t expecting to run through the forest tonight, and my skirt and fishnets aren’t exactly the best attire for this. I can feel a cut already bleeding on my leg as my fishnets snag on another twig. The lantern light completely fades behind me, devoured by the dark. The only sound louder than my footsteps is my heartbeat — wild, frantic, animalistic.

I don’t know if I’m runningfromhim orforhim. The craziest part is that I can’t bring myself to care either way; I just keep running.

The deeper into the forest I go, the more the world seems to tilt on its axis. The ground dips, rises, and twists beneath me. I’ve gone off the main trail, worn flat with its countless years of hikers and dog walkers enjoying the Briar Hollow forest, and my feet are unused to this terrain. My lungs burn, but I don’t stop. Every breath tastes like smoke and night — the scent of him still clinging to it.

Somewhere behind me, I hear it — the steady rhythm of another pair of footsteps. Not rushing. Not chasing.

Following.

Hunting.

My pulse stumbles. The sound of his footsteps grows louder, more deliberate. He’s letting me know he’s there. He wants me to know he isn’t far behind.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine that isn’t entirely fear. There’s a kind of music in the chase — a rhythm between his steps and mine, between the pounding of my heart and the drag of my breath.

“Stop,” I whisper to myself. “Stop running. Just go home.” But I don’t.

The trees thin just enough for the full moon to find me — a pale, silver glow cutting through the canopy. It glances off my mask, my skin damp with sweat, my trembling hands gripping the camera like it could save me.

It’s then that I hear him again. Closer this time, as if he’s right beside me. A low chuckle, dark and amused, curling through the dark like sin and caressing my eardrums with its silk.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Youdoknow how to run.”

The words root me to the spot. Heat flushing between my legs. What did he call me?

I whirl around, searching the shadows, but see nothing — only movement at the corner of my vision, a flicker of black against the trees.

“Who are you?” My voice shakes.

Silence.