Mark of the Hunt

“Cold,” I murmur as I wake to the icy bite of metal against my back, the chill seeping through me like an unwelcome guest. The floor smells like dog piss, puke from a night of drinking, and the most wretched cold you could imagine. It’s the kind of cold that short-circuits your brain, leaving you with nothing but the sheer misery of existing. The kind of cold that sinks into your bones, making you question everything—like, maybe warmth was just a cruel myth invented to sell overpriced blankets.

I’ve never wished to be a high school boy before, but right now, I just want to stroll through this icy hell and casually declare, “Cold never bothered me anyway,” while strutting around in shorts, proudly showcasing my non-existent calves to the world.

But how did I even end up in this cold prison? Let me tell you my backstory—because that’s how stories start, right? Except... I can’t. Nothing. Blank. Zip. The harder I try to pull at the threads of my past, the faster they unravel into a big, fat nothing.

Okay, fine. Let’s start smaller. My name. Simple enough. Except... nope. Nothing there either.

How about my age? That should be easy, right? Wrong. It’s like trying to guess the number of jellybeans in a jar, except the jar doesn’t even exist.

Alright, alright, let’s go broader—my address? My country? Still nothing.

Panic is creeping in now, curling up in my chest like a smug little gremlin. I won’t give up that easily. Let’s try one more thing: What color is my hair?

...Nothing.

It’s like my brain packed its bags, left a Post-it note that says, Good luck figuring it out, loser, and went on vacation. Without me.

I feel a laugh bubbling up, sharp and jagged, because what else can I do? I’m a blank slate.

Then I hear it—a groan. Low, guttural, and entirely too human. I jerk upright so fast my vision blurs, and that’s when I see him. A guy lying next to me, his face scrunched up like he’s deciding whether to wake up or just stay unconscious and hope for the best. The man—if we can call this disheveled creature a “man”—looked like he just lost a fight with a dumpster.

“Hey,” I say, my voice hoarse. He doesn’t respond.

Rude.

“Dude... wake up,” I say a bit louder, but just as I’m about to slap him awake—because nothing says “good morning” like a smack to the face—his eyes flutter open. We stare at each other for a moment, both radiating What the actual hell is going on? energy.

Before either of us can say anything, the smell hits. Oh, the smell. Imagine a three-hundred-year-old dirty sock, then forget about that because this is worse. It’s like something had died, then been left to marinate in despair.

My partner in captivity starts violently gagging, clutching his nose like it’s going to magically stop the assault on his senses.

“Nope,” I say, waving a hand in front of my face like that would help. Spoiler: it doesn’t. “It smells like something crawled in here to die. Twice.”

He coughs and gags again, his eyes locked onto me like he’s blaming me for the smell.

“Hey, you good?” I ask sarcastically, clearly he’s not planning on being useful anytime soon, so I guess it would be better if he passed out from the fumes.

He finally opens his mouth, but the first thing out of it isn’t “Where am I?” or “What the hell is going on?” Nope. Instead, he asks, “Did you kidnap me?”

I blink, processing the sheer ridiculousness of the question. Kidnapping? Seriously? I’m half-dead from the smell, and this guy thinks I’ve been plotting some kind of villainous scheme?

I give him a flat look, one eyebrow arched. “You think I kidnapped you?” I laugh, but it comes out more like a hacking cough. “If I had, don’t you think I’d at least be a little more... organized? This place looks like a trash heap. If I’m going to kidnap anyone, I’d at least get a better location. Maybe a slightly less... haunted vibe?”

I’d have at least tried to make it a bit less obvious. Like, maybe a blindfold or a “kidnappee survival guide” or something.

He stares at me, confusion written all over his face. “So you’re not...?” he trails off, and I can’t decide if I’m relieved or insulted.

Whatever. He’s clearly more unconscious than I am, and by the time he gets his brain back online, I should probably figure out where we are—if I’m even capable of doing that.

I glance around, trying to make sense of this weird little world we’re stuck in. It’s some type of hut or a shed, or... maybe both? Honestly, I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that I have no idea where we are, or the fact that this place looks like it was constructed by someone who failed the “How to Build a Shelter” course. The walls are crooked, and there’s a low, dark ceiling that feels like it’s closing in on me.

Yeah, I’m definitely in a horror movie.

Right on cue, the guy finally starts to wake up fully, rubbing his face like he’s trying to shake off the sleep and the nightmare we’re in. “What is that god-awful smell?”

I blink. Really? That’s what he’s concerned about? I’m over here trying to figure out if I’m about to die or be turned into some sick science experiment, and he’s worried about the smell?

“Yeah, no kidding,” I reply dryly, pointing to the air like it’s obvious. He looks around like he’s just realizing we’re in some kind of deranged version of a vacation resort. “Where are we?” he asks, his voice still thick with confusion.

Oh, perfect. As if I know. “I was hoping you’d have a map or something, but since we’re both clearly stuck in this mess, I guess we’re figuring it out together.”

He looks at me, confusion written all over his face, then, out of nowhere, stands up. I swear to God, the dude almost knocks me out with his sudden movement. “I don’t know you,” he says, his voice laced with suspicion. “What if you kidnapped me here as some sick joke?”

I blink, trying to process how absurd this is. Kidnap you? Dude, you ain’t that special. If I was going to kidnap anyone, I’d go for Ariana Grande, not some random guy with questionable taste in morning confusion.

Before I can get a word in edgewise, though, he’s already striding toward the piece of wood that’s supposed to pass for a door. I’m not stupid, even if I can’t remember a damn thing about myself. I’ve watched enough horror movies to know you don’t just fling open any door without thinking. There’s a reason the “don’t open the door” rule exists in every single one of them. But of course, he’s already out the door, like it’s some kind of treasure hunt—except instead of gold, all he’s finding is confusion, rust, and a whole lot of bad decisions.

So, what do I do? Follow him. Because, as every horror movie has taught me, the lone girl always dies first.

As I walk behind him, my eyes adjust to the dimness, and I realize the only source of light we had was the faint glow from the room we just left. And, of course, the farther we go from it, the darker it gets. Great, just great. Can’t even see my own hand in front of my face now.

“Awesome,” I mutter to myself. “This is definitely how I die. Lost in the dark with Mr. Trust Issues.”

Mr. Trust Issues is walking around the shed like he’s the one who’s got it all figured out, looking over every rusted tool, every half-rotted piece of wood, like he’s conducting some kind of investigation. Meanwhile, I’m trailing behind him like a lost puppy, trying not to trip over my own feet.

Then it hits me. I’m short. Like, really short. I glance down, realizing I’m 5′1—maybe 5′2 on a good day. And if I wasn’t already freaked out by this whole situation, I’d be annoyed at how small I feel.

Then there’s Mr. Trust Issues, towering over me like a damn skyscraper. The dude’s probably 5′11, maybe even 6 feet tall, and I’m just here looking up at him like a toddler every time he says something remotely intelligent... which, frankly, isn’t often.

And don’t even get me started on the fact that he seriously thinks a 5′1 girl like me could kidnap a guy who looks like he could bench press a small car. Who does he think I am? I’d be lucky to knock over a soda can, let alone drag his ass anywhere. If anything, I’m probably the one who’s about to get kidnapped—by him, at this point.

But then it hits me. Wait a second. He’s too stupid to kidnap me.

I mean, seriously. This guy can barely form a coherent sentence without looking like he’s solving a Rubik’s Cube. If he thinks he’s gonna pull off some master plan to kidnap me, he’s got another thing coming. The dude doesn’t even know how to open a door without getting distracted by the world’s most awful smell.

Honestly, the only thing he’s capable of kidnapping right now is the last shred of sanity I have left.

Just as I was coming to a conclusion about our situation—Drip, drip—something falls on his back, and then, before I can even process it, plop, something cold and wet hits my face. I freeze, barely stopping myself from running straight into him as he comes to an abrupt halt.

“What the hell—” he mutters, reaching up to touch his back where the mystery substance just dripped down.

I wipe my face, not entirely sure what just happened. I mean, what was that? It’s cold, it’s slimy, and it’s definitely not something I’m thrilled about being coated in. “Oh, great,” I say, blinking to clear whatever it was off my face. “Now we’ve got…” I freeze.

It’s a familiar red substance. The kind of red that makes your stomach flip, the kind you don’t want to see unless you’re watching a very different genre of movie. Fear grips me as I smell it.

“Yep, it was the forbidden human juice.” I swallow hard, trying not to gag as I stare at my hands, now smeared with the worst thing I could imagine.

I look up at him, expecting some sort of reaction, but he’s already beat me to it. His eyes are glued to the ceiling, wide, horrified. Without even thinking, I follow his gaze.

And that’s when the haunting sight welcomes me.

There, dripping from the ceiling in thick, slow drops, is more of that red substance—coming from a hogtied sheep on the ceiling, its belly cut wide open like some twisted, sick piece of abstract art that has no business being in a shed. It was surrounded with strange markings on the ceilings, painted by the same red substance.

A sense of dread floods my chest as my brain races to make sense of it. This can’t be real. This can’t be real.