Whether it was the hair rising on the backs of their necks, or the sticky sensation of the cool wind disappearing on that humid night, the three friends knew that something was... wrong with The Man who stepped out from behind The Tree.
They stopped in their tracks, or rather their trail, for that is what they were on. This camping trip, suggested by The Strongest, was the last hurrah of senior year, a denouement of childhood. The Smartest had immediately agreed to this venture, as nature was her "passion." The Bravest, who at this moment was feeling his courage slowly seep into the thick air, said yes too.
So when The Man took a step towards them from The Tree, His Tree, the three friends instinctively drew together. It was not a cognizant motion, but rather a primordial one, an instinct buried deep within their subconsciouses. The Strongest stepped in front, his normal bravado dampened but not completely extinguished. The man had stopped not five yards away from the trio, underneath the shade of another tree. The Strongest opened his mouth to speak, and The Man immediately tilted his head, as if listening. It was a subtle motion, yet all three friends gasped in pain.
The Stongest fell to his knees as his strength left him. He knelt there, shivering and buzzing like a live wire, his left hand clenching, unclenching, clenching. The Smartest dropped straight to the ground. Her brain struggled to process the static that filled her neurons. Black and white fuzz coursed through her nervous system, and her eyes saw only snow. Only The Bravest was left standing. He tried not to look at The Strongest, because he knew he would fall. He tried not to look at The Smartest, because he knew he would be struck dumb. All he could do was look at The Man, and be filled with black, deep horror.
The Man stared back and began to walk towards The Bravest, whose tears and sweat amplified the weak moonlight that lined his pale face. As The Man crawled forward and passed through The Trees, The Bravest tried to comprehend the being that drew near to him. It was a dark thing, and that was all he could think of, all that his mind could grasp in this state. The word dark bounced around his head like a desperate bat, trapped inside a cage it cannot see.
DarkdarkDARKdarkdarkdark.
The Man reached The Bravest, reached out to The Bravest, and stroked his face with two cool fingers.
"My. Child."
The thing spoke, but The Bravest saw no mouth. The words resonated in his head, replacing the dark with their twisting, fluttering, skittering repetitions.
mychildmychildmychildmychildmychild.
The Man took the hand of The Bravest and led him away from the others, towards The Tree. The Bravest found that he had no will to resist, no desire to flee, though the hand that held his was rife with decay and infused with pestilence.
The Man stopped at The Tree, and released the hand of The Bravest, turning to walk away.
The Bravest began to feel his senses return, his thoughts reorganized, and the absurdity of the situation became clear to him. He gathered his breath to shout at the obviously deranged man who had terrorized his friends, when The Man froze in his tracks.
The Man did not "turn" so much as twist, with a wooden creak, to regard The Bravest with his face. For that is what The Bravest now saw, the face of The Man. The milky, pupiless eyes somehow smiled mockingly as The Man raised a single finger to his lips. He shushed the screams that were rising, roaring, exploding from the throat of The Bravest as he felt the branches of The Tree slowly reach out, and a silent blanket of darkness covered the forest once again.