not just a mask

"Should I bury her?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper. The idea seemed absurd — he had no shovel, no way to dig a grave. But the thought of leaving her there, just lying in the open, made his skin crawl. He took another bite of bread, chewing slowly, his mind wandering.

He could make a cairn, maybe, cover her with stones. But that would take time, time he didn't have. He looked down at the antlers again,

If he needed to barter with the people here, if he needed to blend in, he might need more than just a mask. The thought gnawed at him like a rat in the dark corners of his mind. He turned the antlers over in his hands, feeling their weight, their solid, almost lifelike texture. A strange idea began to take shape, an idea that turned his stomach even as it gripped his thoughts. What if I wore them?

He almost recoiled at the thought, a shiver running down his spine. He dropped the antlers onto the cold stone floor and stepped back. But then, slowly, inexorably, he found himself reaching for them again, his fingers trembling slightly as they curled around the bone. He lifted them to his head, feeling the base press against his scalp, the weight settling on his brow like a crown.

He imagined how he might look with them on — not quite like them, not really, but enough to pass a glance in the dim light of the forest. Enough to make them hesitate, to make them think twice before they screamed or ran. He could almost hear the whisper in his mind again, the hiss of breath in his ear. Wear them… wear her…

His gaze drifted back to the girl's body, lying motionless on the cave floor. He found himself staring at her face, at the soft lines of her cheeks, her closed eyes. The idea, the urge, grew stronger, spreading through him like a slow, creeping chill. His heart began to pound in his chest, and his skin tingled with a sensation that wasn't quite fear — something deeper, darker.

The whisper in his mind grew louder. Take it. Wear it. Become one of them. He shook his head, trying to clear the thought, but it only grew more insistent. The skin, he realized, the fur… he could use it. He could make a disguise. Not just the antlers, but the whole pelt — the hide itself.

His stomach twisted, revulsion battling with the strange compulsion that gripped him. His breath quickened, a tightness forming in his chest. He didn't want to do this — didn't even know why the thought had occurred to him. But the whisper persisted, threading through his thoughts like a needle through cloth, stitching together his fear, his desperation, and something else he didn't want to name.

He crouched down beside her, his knife in his hand, and reached out to touch the fur on her shoulder. It was softer than he'd imagined, a texture both familiar and foreign. He hesitated, swallowing hard. A wave of nausea swept over him, his hands trembling. But he didn't stop. Slowly, he began to cut, the blade slicing into the fur, parting it from the flesh beneath.

The sound was wet, sickening, and he nearly gagged, bile rising in his throat. His hands moved faster, almost frantic, as if trying to outrun the thoughts racing through his mind. He worked with a grim determination, stripping the hide from the body in long, ragged strips. Blood pooled on the ground, dark and sticky, soaking into the dirt. The air was filled with the metallic tang of it, and he could taste it in the back of his throat.

He kept working, trying not to think too much, trying to ignore the whispers that now seemed to fill the cave, louder and louder with every cut. He didn't know where the urge came from, didn't know why he was doing this — only that he couldn't stop. He pulled the skin free, draping it over his shoulders, feeling the weight of it settle around him.

It felt… wrong, and yet, at the same time, strangely right. He adjusted the hide, letting it fall around him like a cloak. The warmth of it seeped into his skin, and he could feel his heartbeat slow, his breathing steady. He took the antlers and secured them to his head by drilling holes into the mask forehead and then adding the leather strap and poking holes to fasten itself into a knot, tying it tight, the bone pressing against his skull threw the mask.

He stared down at the body, now a mere husk, hollowed out and empty. His hands were slick with blood, and he felt the warmth of it on his face, the scent of it filling his nostrils. He felt something stir in his chest, a dark, quiet satisfaction that he didn't understand, but that made him shudder with a strange, guilty pleasure.

Now they won't see me, he thought. Now they won't know.

He moved to the cave wall, where the shadows flickered and danced in the firelight. He crouched down, almost instinctively, and began to use the bloody knife to scrape away at the soot and dirt, drawing rough shapes, crude symbols that he didn't recognize, that he hadn't planned. They just flowed from him, from his hand, from the dark recesses of his mind.

He paused, panting, and looked at what he'd done. Strange shapes, twisted and looping, like antlers or horns, spiraled across the cave wall. The whispers were louder now, clearer. Good, they seemed to say. Good. You are learning.

He closed his eyes, his hands clenched into fists. His pulse pounded in his ears, and he could feel his skin crawling, the hairs on his neck standing up. The cave felt colder, darker, like the shadows were closing in around him. He breathed in, slowly, trying to calm himself, to steady his nerves.

The hide clung to his skin the meat was still fresh and bloody but he couldnt afford to tan it otherwise the scent and natural texture would disapear, making it easier for other animals to tell from a far it was not alive anymore, the antlers felt heavy on his head. He felt… strange, almost as if he were someone else. Or maybe not someone — something. The whispers grew softer now, more like a distant murmur, and he felt his body relax, his muscles unwind. His eyes fluttered open, and he looked around the cave. The walls seemed to move in and out, like breathing.

He leaned back against the rock and yawned, his exhaustion suddenly overwhelming. The whispers faded, leaving him in a silence so profound it pressed against his ears. He felt his eyes grow heavy, and his body sagged against the cave wall. He needed sleep. Just a little. To think. To figure out what to do next.

As his eyelids began to droop, he felt the cold breath of something on his cheek, like a presence at his shoulder, whispering into his ear. A voice. The same voice from before, only clearer now, closer. It was deep and resonant, a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Sleep," it whispered. "And dream."

And he did.

The fire crackled, spitting embers into the air. He was back in the cave, but everything felt wrong. The air was thick, heavy with the smell of burnt wood and ash. The shadows on the walls seemed deeper, darker, twisting like they were alive, writhing in the firelight. He stared at the mask in the flames, its wooden surface blackening and curling. Suddenly, with a violent jerk, the mask flew from the fire as if thrown by invisible hands.

He blinked, his heart racing. A skeletal hand shot out from the shadows, catching the mask midair. The hand was cracked and blackened, bone peeling from flesh, but it moved with a strange, fluid grace. A figure emerged from the darkness, its form shrouded in a cloak of flickering flames. Its body twisted unnaturally, its eyes glowing with a cold, dead light.

The thing spoke, its voice a gurgling hiss, echoing through the cave like a hundred voices all speaking at once, overlapping and indistinct. "Why… why… do you hunt?" it asked, the words stretching and warping in his mind, twisting into something almost unintelligible. "Why wear… the skin… of the dead? Do you… think it makes you… one of them?"

He tried to answer, but his mouth felt numb, his tongue thick and unresponsive. The creature slithered closer, its skeletal face leaning in, eyes boring into his own. "A purpose… a purpose… you think you have… you think you know… but no… no… you do not… not yet…"

It moved faster than his eyes could follow, a blur of bone and fire, and its hand clamped onto his forehead. He felt a cold shock, like ice in his brain, pain shooting through his skull. "You… are a hunter… a hunter… but you are hunted too… hunted too… prey in the shadows… prey in the dark…"

He felt its grip tightening, the cold seeping into his thoughts, clouding his mind. The figure held up something in its hand — the list, he realized, but the names were smudged, written in red that gleamed like fresh blood. "Rules… rules… rules for the game…" it said, its voice a chittering chorus. "A kill for every kind… every kind… but not the same… not the same… each one different… different…"

He tried to speak, tried to understand, but his voice came out in a ragged whisper. "What… what does that mean? Why are you doing this?"

The creature's mouth twisted into a grin, the shadows contorting around its face. "Ah… ah… why, why, why… why indeed?" it laughed, the sound echoing off the cave walls. "For fun… for pleasure… for the thrill of the chase… for the feast… for the feast… for the feast…"

It leaned closer, its breath like smoke, hot and bitter. "Seven days… seven days…" it crooned, "to play… to learn… to hunt… to hide… to stalk… to taste… Seven days… until the moon bleeds red… and the game begins anew…"

The words tangled in his ears, like a thousand whispers buzzing in the dark. "Hide your face… hide your scent… walk soft… walk silent… be still… be still… but when they run… when they cry… you chase… you chase…"

It stepped back, retreating into the shadows, but its voice remained, bouncing around the cave. "Seven days… seven days… and then we shall see… what you are… what you really are…"

He gasped awake, his heart racing, his skin cold and damp with sweat. The fire had burned down to embers, and the cave was filled with dark, creeping shadows. He sat up, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, his hand reaching up to feel the rough surface of the hide draped over his shoulders, the hard press of the antlers against his scalp.

Seven days, he thought, the words still whispering in his ears, still echoing in the dark. Seven days… seven days…

what the hell had he gotten himself into.