Hunted in the Dark

I should have listened to you, Jennifer. God, I wish I had listened.

I don’t know if you’ll get this letter, but I’m sorry. You were absolutely right. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you. I should have never gone past the old train overpass. I just wanted to see if the stories were true. It was stupid to come out here after midnight. If I could take it all back, I would in an instant.

It’s hard to tell how long I’ve been out here. The numbers on the clock in my car are all messed up, and my phone died almost immediately. It tries to turn on, but just flickers weakly on the boot screen before going black again. I don’t think there’s any hope that it will magically come back.

What was that quote from that Thor movie? “It’s like a circle, but a freaky circle.” Yeah… freaky. I’ve passed the overpass and the same broken down windmill seven times now and am starting to run low on gas. I can’t keep driving. How is it not morning yet? I feel like I’ve been out here for a dozen hours, but there’s no sunlight yet. I guess all things considered, that shouldn’t be surprising.

Jennifer, I hope you find this and understand that I am so, so sorry. I should have believed you. I should have believed you last week, and I should have believed you twenty years ago. Back then, I thought you were just being childish and trying to scare me, but I believe you now. I think I finally understand what happened to you at camp. I believe you, because now it’s hunting me.

I always thought the Scydran was a myth, a tale that the local orchard farmers told kids to get them to stay away. Black fur, long talon claws, razor sharp teeth, yellow glowing eyes, and a soul-piercing howl. You gotta admit, it checks all the clichés. If I hadn’t seen it just a couple hours ago, I would have never believed it. I think it was a couple hours ago. I can’t keep track of time here.

I remember when we were kids, hearing the stories, and you were so enamored with all the details. I didn't believe it, and I thought you were crazy. I made fun of you for it in middle and high school, but now I wish I knew what you know. I can't remember how to get out of here. I know that I'm tired and scared, but I can't help but think that somehow you'd be able to help me if you were here.

How did you get away from it? Now I regret every dismissive thing I ever said to you. I know I hurt you; I could see it clearly in your eyes and the way you shrank away. I should have listened closer. I should have let you speak and tell your story. Because now it’s after me, and I don’t know if I can escape like you did.

Each time I hear its scream, it’s closer. That sound...it catches in your chest and absolutely petrifies me. I catch glimpses of those eyes through the trees every now and then. It sees me, and it’s hunting me. It’s absolutely massive. The stories tell you how scary and sharp it is, but they fail to really capture how huge it is. It’s as tall as my house, its eyes glimmering through the treetops.

I can’t drive much further. I’m thinking of climbing the overpass to look around and see if I can find a way out of this loop I’m trapped in. I need to find a way out, but it’s out there, and I’m afraid if I leave my car that will be the end. There’s no way I could outrun it on foot. I don’t know what else to do.

I hope I can see you again, Jennifer. I hope that I can escape this loop, escape that monster. I hope tomorrow comes, and I can wake up and call you. We can meet up at the froyo shop and you can talk about your dog and your new car and absolutely anything, and I’ll just shut up and listen. I need to listen.

If I don’t see you again, I miss you and I’m very, very sorry. If you can find it in your heart, please tell my mom I'm sorry and that I wish only to see her again.