The Other Hunter
Daniel knew these woods. He had hunted them since he was a boy.
He could track a deer for miles.
He could smell the rain before it fell.
But today, something was wrong. The air felt heavy. The birds were silent.
No wind.
No movement.
Just the weight of something watching.
He adjusted the strap on his rifle and pressed forward.
The ground was damp from last night's storm, his boots sinking into the mud.
A fresh trail cut through the brush—hoofprints.
A buck, moving east.
Daniel followed.
Step by step.
Silent.
Cautious.
Then he saw them.
Boot prints.
Big. Deep. Fresh.
Heading in the same direction.
Daniel frowned.
He hadn't seen another hunter today.
Hell, no one else even came this deep into the woods.
But the prints were there.
And worse—
They matched his own.
Daniel crouched, running a gloved hand through the damp earth.
Same size.
Same tread pattern.
Identical.
He swallowed hard.
Then he followed.
The prints led him to a clearing.
Tall grass.
A single, dead tree.
And a man standing in the middle.
Back turned.
Still.
Daniel froze.
The man wore a dark jacket.
Faded jeans.
A rifle slung across his back.
And when he shifted his weight—
Daniel recognized the movement.
Like looking into a mirror.
A lump formed in his throat.
He raised his rifle.
"Who's there?"
The man didn't move.
Daniel stepped forward.
"Hey. You lost?"
The man twitched.
Slow. Stiff.
Then—
He turned around.
And Daniel felt his stomach drop.
Because the man—
Was him.
Same face.
Same scar under his chin from a bar fight in '98.
Same tired eyes.
But there was something wrong with the way he moved.
Like his skin didn't fit right.
And his eyes—
Dark.
Empty.
Like they had never seen light.
Then the thing smiled.
And it ran.
Daniel's body reacted before his mind could.
He chased it.
Branches whipped at his face as he tore through the trees.
The thing was fast—too fast.
But no matter how hard he ran—
It was always just ahead.
Like it was leading him somewhere.
Then—
It stopped.
Just stood there.
Waiting.
Daniel raised his rifle, breathing hard.
"Who are you?"
The thing tilted its head.
Then—
It spoke.
"I am you."
Daniel's grip tightened on the trigger.
The voice was wrong.
Too many voices at once.
Like a dozen Daniels speaking together.
Like something was trying to be him.
A cold sweat crawled down his neck.
He fired.
The bullet hit center mass.
The thing jerked—
But no blood came out.
No pain.
It just smiled wider.
Then it whispered—
"Now it's your turn to run."
Daniel heard footsteps.
Behind him.
He turned.
Another one.
Another him.
Then another.
And another.
All identical.
All smiling.
Whispering in unison.
"Run, run, run, run—"
Daniel dropped his rifle.
And he ran.
The next morning, the sheriff found his campsite.
The fire was still burning.
His gear untouched.
His rifle lay in the dirt.
Footprints led into the woods—
But none came back.
The search team never found him.
But some nights, when the wind was quiet, hikers reported strange sightings.
A lone figure in the trees.
Watching.
Hunting.
Wearing Daniel's face.
Waiting for the next traveler.
Waiting for the next turn.