Dead silence rang through the forest. It had been a long time since he’d been home, but there was nothing to be done about that now. He rose out of his shelter, a makeshift blanket made of fibres pushed aside and left cold on the mud floor. Eyes darted, surveying the shelter for any signs of disturbance. Nothing.

The soles of his feet were now hardened, his peripheral widened. Soon winter would befall, and with that came immense problems. The cool air hit his face, nipping at the harsh skin and rough clothes. He glided towards the first makeshift trap, glancing before checking it more closely. Nothing. No signs of tampering either. With haste he checked the rest of the traps within the shelters proximity, all the same as the first.

He walked back over to the shelter and sat down, breathing hard. If the seasons were kind to him, it’d be a month until the first frost. If they were spiteful?

With a shudder he stood up, shaking his head. He’d have to go further today. Dread gnawed at his brain as he gathered his staff, makeshift knife and a woven basket.

He checked each trap as he walked further into the forest, each empty and untampered with. The sound of crunching branches cut the silence like a knife. Every few steps he’d stop, breath held and ears pricked for anything.

The occasional mushroom hid beneath the forest leaves, so easy to miss. Leaning down, he dug through the leaves like a man possesed. There, he spotted it. His hand reached towards the pale mushroom, shaking slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, something moved. A shadow, darker than night, sprinting towards him, reaching for the mushroom. He gasped, falling backwards, his knife waving frantically in front of him.

He blinked, and it was gone. Eyes wide, he stood up, spinning around, looking for any signs of whatever it was. His breath raged, bordering hysteria as he gazed an the forest floor for any disturbances made by the thing. Nothing.

Nerves frayed, he sprinted back to the shelter, leaving the mushroom behind. The traps remained empty as he passed them.

The shelter was warmer than outside as he clambered in, closing himself within. Was it easier to think himself insane? But if he wasn’t? He curled his frail body beneath the blanket and drifted into uneasy sleep.

He knew it was a dream because he was home. He wandered up the front steps, homesickness aching in his bones. Upon opening the door, it looked different. Darker. Filled with shadows. Willing himself to turn back and close the door, his dream self stepped forward. A creaking noise echoed in the silence. From the furthest corner a shadowy entity stepped forward, as if darkness itself.

His dream self stepped forward, as if in greeting. The shadow suddenly lurched, sprinting at him, crawling inside him.

Awaking with a jolt, his heart racing, he lept up to check the outside of his shelter. It was sunrise, the forest damp with dew. Doubling over, he vomited. He attempted to calm himself, pacing back and forward, checking the traps.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the pile of vomit. It looked … dark. He rubbed his eyes, stepping towards it. His frail body shook as he gazed upon the steaming pile. There seemed to be something moving within it. Within the darkness. He stepped backwards quickly.