I Need A Sign

"Run!! Run!! Run!! Run...!!"

The crows' shrieks tore through the forest, their white eyes glowing like beacons in the dark. Oliver's heart hammered louder than the waves, each beat cracking against his ribs.

The trees twisted at an impossible angle, its branches snapping as if being pulled by an invisible string. Leaves rained down, not floating, but hurtling, slicing his skin like a paper-thin blade.

"Hazel! Hazel! Hazel!" he shouted.

Her name spilled from his lips, each whisper softer than before. He could hear whispers of himself—as if his voice was being carried by the wind. The sky was pale black with dark clouds and eerie wind, with cries filling the air like a warzone.

His legs trembled with every step, feeling every bone beneath his skin cracking. His body could sense the pain, but his mind remained like a dragon's heart. Broken toes? Maybe. Madness? Definitely. He stumbled through the forest, screaming his wife's name until his voice dissolved into the thick, suffocating air.

His eyes turned pale as he halted upon an empty, crooked hut, its rotted timber groaning like teeth crashing against each other. - A hut that hadn't been seen in centuries.

The crows fell silent. The leaves froze mid-air, edges curling black as burnt flesh. Then, the smell hit him: copper, rot, and decayed roses. The leaves began to drip.

"Drip! Drip! Drip!"

The sound from the red liquid raining down filled his ear even before it started pooling up at his feet. Then, he could feel a presence watching him from afar. But his stare locked onto the hut—as if it were staring back, unblinking.

It hunched like a crippled beast, its walls slanted impossibly. Rot-blackened planks should've collapsed, yet it stood—intact. The door hung crooked, etched with grooves like tally marks counting something unspeakable.

A single window gaped like a cataract-clouded eye, the glass long shattered. Through it, shadows shifted—not from the flicker of light, but as though the darkness inside were breathing. The air around the hut thickened, carrying the metallic tang of old blood and the sweet-rot stench of decaying roses.

But the worst part was the silence.

The silence wasn't empty—it pressed against his eardrums, thick and suffocating, like the air before a lightning strike. 

The leaves froze mid-air, edges blackening like charred skin. Then the stench hit—copper, bloated meat, and beneath it all, the cloying decay of funeral roses.

It slithered into his nostrils, a rancid cocktail of blood-soaked pennies and meat left to bloat in summer heat. His throat convulsed; bile burned the back of his tongue. But beneath the rot lurked something worse: the cloying sweetness of decayed violets, a funeral bouquet shoved into wet soil. His eyes watered, yet he couldn't look away. Between the trees, the shadows thickened, pooling into something solid. Something is watching. 

The crows didn't flee. 

They bowed. 

No wind dared rustle its warped timbers. No insects hummed in its shadow. Even Oliver's ragged breaths seemed muffled, as if the hut were drinking sound itself. The crow's cry started again as the first liquid touched his forehead. But this time it wasn't a cry.

It was a baby laugh.

As he listened to the crying and sensed he was being watched, a shadow lurched past the window. Oliver stumbled, his heart a frantic drum. His mind screamed to flee, but his body lurched forward—compelled, inhuman.

Upon taking every careful step, the creepy baby cries increased as if they were being erupted from the wretched hut. He could sense a person or a force behind him, but every attempt to uncover it led to a loss.

"Mmm!! Mmm!! Mmm!!"

The broken wooden door creaked open, not with a groan, but with a slow and unnatural sucking sound, unveiling its thick black space resembling a void into nothingness. His eyes got swallowed by the sharp, shiny object above the hut. Where is the light from? Upon careful look, the shiny object turned out to be something round with a straight black foamy handle. Is that what I think it is...?

As he continues to figure out what was placed in a dreadful manner above the hut, a soft but eerie wind blushed his curry hair. The nature of the air sent his mind back in time, traveling him back to the time he mistakenly bumped upon a cemetery at noon. Busily trying to figure out why he feels the same sensation he felt on that day, a soft, echoing voice erupted from the thick, black inner space of the hut.

"What... is that, Hazel?" he whispered.

He fumbled for his pocketknife, the blade already slick with blood from the gash at his waist. His own weapon turned against him. Without caring about his current condition, he positioned the knife in his left arm—the arm he usually used in the midst of a fight—while groaning and making a fist with his right arm as a means of a shield, finding every means to survive in the midst of danger.

"Oliver...! Come, I am inside." The voice slithered through the darkness, wearing Hazel's tone like a mask.

The crow spiraled above the hut in a circular motion, signaling humans when they sighted a decayed animal. But there was no decayed animal on top of the hut—nor were there a trace of a decaying body, rather a whisper.

The baby cries seemed like conversation as they turned higher and higher while they flapped their wings like claps—things happen at night.

With careful steps he moved like a knight in a sleeping dragon's nest, focusing each step on the best angle of defense. Stretching his defensive right arm to open the door wider, his thumb creased upon an inscription that had the texture of claw marks.

Then his eyes changed direction and gazed deeply on the words.

"You were here before. You just forgot."

Worse, beneath the final word, initials swirled into the grain.

O.L

His own.

The initials glared back: O.L. His own. The date beneath them was impossible—he'd never been here. Yet his body remembered what his mind refused to.