Hey everyone and welcome to my multifandom blog! I mostly reblog or like posts of my interests but I decided to take part in the writing community.
Please be patient, I want the character/s and story to be close as possible in canon while maintaining its realistic and fanon aspect.
I do commissions too!
Commission Guidelines Here!!
Fandoms
♡ Obey Me!
♡ Stardew Valley
♡ Creepypasta
♡ Demon Slayer
♡ Wind Breaker
♡ My Hero Academia
♡ Twisted Wonderland
♡ Lord of The Rings and The Hobbit
♡ adding more soon...
You are a curse in the town. But as long as you stay within your purpose, there is no need to delve deeper into his forest.
Want your own personal story with a certain character? Or need a critique partner? My commissions are open! See Commission Guidelines if interested.
Importance Before Reading:
Interpretations of medical conditions may be inaccurate. The author continues her research as best as she can as she writes this ongoing fanfiction.
Most character ages are over eighteen. The reader will age in the future chapters. Sally and BEN are written as minors.
The author may insert some own character names that can help fill the story's plot.
English is not the author's first language.
2nd POV, uses [Y/N]
Contains violence and profanities!
━⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅━
1 || 2 || Chapter 3.
The Rake serves as a guard dog of the woods. There are other killers who can do its job but he—and along with his proxies—rely on the abominable more. It knows the terrain and secrets like him. The Rake runs on all fours, panting as it pauses to smell the air. Its hollow, comically large black eyes almost look like empty sockets gazes above the branches of the trees around. It runs again—never been agitated like this. And the decision to patrol on the double is its own.
The Rake can sense it. Something's off. It needs to deal with the possible danger might bring before it reaches the premises.
Unnaturally scented, not like a certain clown—yet it still draws the prey into their trap. The Rake closes near to a den under a tree that is big and sturdy enough to act as a canopy. It cannot fit itself in the cavern, but the carnivore that lives inside snarls. The Rake snaps its teeth in return, follow by a cacophony of taunts.
The unwanted predator rattles a moan. Cracks echo from inside as a hand—long, bony, and pale—grips a root. Nails claw the wood, leaving marks as it slowly reveals itself to The Rake.
---
You easily stealth under the school faculty every lunch. Finding solace in an exit stairway to get away from the torment. The moment you came those kinds of people pointed fingers about the latest missing case. You manage survive the half of the day, just few more hours until the bell rings.
You savor the food that Lance had prepared, well enough to last more than a week. Your phone rests on your lap, displaying a news article of the said case. And as expected—it has something to do with wildlife. The occasional noises from the main halls is muffle by the heavy door as you rest your head against the concrete wall. Dust gathers at the corners of each step, making you sniff a little as your mind drifts to the college kid.
The copied reports mentioned the friend who alerted the nearest ranger. You'll be heading straight to the public after school for internet access and search their name on social media. You likely believe they'll be quickly identified, mutuals and posts can help you pinpoint where they are from.
Your phone buzzes, a caller ID pops out at the top. "What?"
"They got something." You can hear the relief on Lance's voice. "Actual tracks. Barefoot."
"Do you think it's the college boy?" You store the rest of the sandwich on the container and set it aside, your posture shifting from interest.
"No. Aria said its slender for a male." He laughs. "Somebody is actually alive, [Y/N]."
You stand up to stretch your legs and lean on the railing, questions echoing. "Where did they find it? Near the restricted?"
"In Sector Five, and the prints were nearer at the park."
Your brows furrow. "That means she's close. Or was close."
"Let's just hope she actually escaped." Lance agrees to your statement. "Fill me in more later."
When afternoon came, you bolt out of class the second the clock strikes three along with the bell. You push through the crowd, some bumping into you on purpose but their attempts never falter you. You take the bus where it stops in your usual spot, few walks and two pedestrian lanes you arrive at the public library. The architecture is old yet preserves its history tales with care as you open the glass door. You find a vacant computer, being tuck in the corner is a bonus. You start to click and type your personal research.
Evan Jones. In this town that looks like it's stuck in time, your first go-to social is Facebook. You open another tab for Instagram for outside relations. Many profiles under the name you have input came and you each scan their friend list until—
Andrew Ortiz. His profile picture matches the face in the missing poster. His friends with five based on his posts, other than family pictures. You gather more information about them. You huff at the discovery, the edge of your lips curling upwards. In a post containing two photos, his smiling at the camera with his family and the other one is him when he was a kid riding a tricycle around the town neighborhood.
You snap your phone camera at the post, adding more into your gallery that catches any glimpses of the house's structure as you click back to Evan's profile.
---
Clockwork is the first one to find The Rake. Unconscious on the dirt and its breath unsteady, its hairless skin blotch with many fresh wounds over the healed scars. She curses, running up at it and falling to her knees. With all of her strength she turns The Rake on to its back, the main trauma is under its chest and belly, own blood paint the raw tissue.
"Fuck—" Clockwork whips her head towards the direction where hurried footsteps are coming. Kate sprints faster when Clockwork calls her.
"What the hell happened?!" She barks, her upfront stoic gone when she surveys the creature. She doesn't wait longer and crouches, looping one of its arms over her shoulder, being careful from its claws. Clockwork does the same thing as both start to drag The Rake to The Manor.
"I—" Clockwork sucks her breath from the anomaly's weight. "—don't know. I found it lying around while I was heading back."
Kate answers with silence. She doesn't struggle that much, though her grip tightens each time The Rakes groans in pain. Dead leaves cling on to the creature's limp body as the proxy and killer hauls it deeper though the woods, tiny branches snapping under their rush. This isn't normal—they've seen The Rake survive gunshots, traps, even bears many times after wandering too close to his territory. It can recover itself without any aid as long as it rests in its cave.
But this...the wound on its torso wasn't clean like an animal attack, or ragged enough to be from another creature in the forest. And certainly not from other killers. They'd be punished or become its meal if they ever attack it. The farther Clockwork and Kate are, the woods grow quieter; insects and wild animals are absent tonight as dim lights appear in their sights from the windows when The Manor comes to view.
Kate doesn't know what will happen. But as soon as she slams the door open static fills her ears so loud, she can practically feel his anger.
---
"The cameras captured the woman." Lance states as he goes through the bulletin board to find a specific poster to hand it to you. "It was the one that disappeared two months ago."
"Tina Lee?" She was a local, went to the forest with her boyfriend—not for sightseeing or hiking, but to have fun in public. Went over the danger zone for more privacy and never returned. Lance hands another poster from the board with the name 'Kennedy Scotts'. It became a gossip material from what you remembered, about some made up cult that took them for being 'daring'. It was obvious the person wanted attention back then, or maybe it was a jealous ex.
Like the radios, the camera also faces casualties in the evening. Glitching or frames freezing from time to time, though it seems luck is good at the moment. Lance tells you about the clear shot of Tina coming out from Sector Five's trail—barefoot, shorts and a shirt that is too big for her stained from soil, hair ragged like it has been yanked, bruises and cuts all over.
"She was running around the park, scared and seeking for help." Lance continues. "It was around three in the morning. Then she went back to the forest."
You rest your chin on your palm, listening while you work the records on the computer. "You think she's trying to lose the pursuer?"
Lance gives you this time a folder. Besides the updated report, it also composes printed images of the footage. The last page displays the heat signature feature—an upgrade donated by the mayor when the disappearances continues. The image is grainy, black background, white outlines from the lampposts, Tina Lee's back on the frame...
And a man standing by the fences.
"Isn't that the outfit Kennedy wore when they came here?" You point out at Lance. He nods in confirmation. Your eyes narrow. Most of his figure appears to be dim—barely carrying enough heat for the system to register.
"He didn't come out. I'm guessing Tina tried to nudge him before the glitch ruined it."
"They're still out there..." You mutter. You look at Lance. "The search is on then at Sector Five."
"It's kind of strange why they decided to go back to the forest rather than stay in the park until the sun comes up." Lance shares. You agree with him, alarms do work at every building in the park. They could've smashed the glass doors for the sake of the police coming.
You know better though.
Cold air rushes inside the already freezing Visitor Center when the door slides open. You and Lance turn to see two guests enter. Immediately you close the folder and tuck it under the front desk before greeting them with a professional smile. "Good evening, welcome to Pinewatch Reserve."
Observation and watching people became a habit of yours, and the pair in front of you look nothing alike. The boy with messy brown hair catches your attention first, not because of a gauze that covers the left corner of his lip towards his cheek, or he's the same age (or a year older) as you—but his body keeps moving slightly even when standing still. One of his shoulder shrugs, head tilts, fingers twitching against the sleeves of the brown jacket he wears over a black shirt. His eyes are on the missing posters.
The other comes up to on the front desk also has a messy brunette, older than his companion. His eye colors are green than dark brown. He has a surgical mask over his mouth and nose, around his neck rests a monochrome scarf. Long black coat, dark gray shirt, and a silver cross necklace.
He pulls the face mask down, and there is a long line of stitches from his cheeks to the edges of his mouth. Another etches across the nose bridge.
He's quite a pretty face even with the seams. Although it makes you wonder what happened, and why is his eyes are distant. Like he's not supposed to be here.
"We're looking for trail access." He informs, voice gruff. "Are there any available at this hour?"
You place a map for the man to take. "Seven and eight are open."
"Nine is c-close then?" The younger pipes in, leaning over the desk, eyes flick on your nametag then at you with a grin. "Disappearance—haha gone!—again?"
"Unfortunately, but it'll open soon to the public." You reply, dismissing his sudden outburst. You are patient enough to secure a wristband pass on him, assuring that he's not being a problem.
"And what are your names?" You ask after tying the other wristband to the man with stitches. You wait as you set the record list on the monitor.
"Toby Rogers." Says the boy with the gauze.
The one in stitches takes the map. "...Sully." His jaw clenches for a fraction. "...Woods."
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Author's Note: once this fanfic has reached 10 chapters (i'm on chapter 6 now mwehehe~) i'll publish it to other websites and reveal the book cover i've made. stay soon!!
♡ Hello!! i'm accepting writing commissions, if you need help with your writing, or want a personal story with a certain character i am open 😁
♡ I also do general critiques and book covers. Samples will be sent privately upon request.
♡ Starting price rates:
Writing commission - $5/₱100 for 500-1k words. May change depending how many word count you inquire.
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You are a curse in the town. But as long as you stay within your purpose, there is no need to delve deeper into his forest.
Want your own personal story with a certain character? Or need a critique partner? My commissions are open! See Commission Guidelines if interested.
Importance Before Reading:
Most character ages are over eighteen. The reader will age in the future chapters. Sally and BEN are written as minors.
The author may insert some own character names that can help fill the story's plot.
English is not the author's first language.
2nd POV, uses [Y/N]
Contains violence and profanities!
━⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅━
1 || Chapter 2. || 3
Your father had no choice but to sell what once belonged to the family—furniture, the house...normality. Survival became more important than enjoying your youth. Sometimes you wonder if your mom also felt like this. Her mind and body ran between exhaustion and responsibility, forced to move without stopping while fragments of her life faded one by one.
Within the thin walls, you can hear the other tenants' lives as clearly as your own, along with the water pipes whenever someone showers. The building isn't much but it's better than sleeping in the streets. It was best your father could afford without wasting much of the sold house money.
You still needed essentials besides a roof over your head after all.
The old heater beside your bed rattles weakly, spurring more noise than warmth to your dismay as you finish the last of your homework that is scatter all over the mattress. You look at the time in your phone—still have enough to prepare for your shift.
Everything can be seen from the front door. Living space is nonexistent but there is a narrow kitchenette press against one wall, the overhead cabinets slightly crooked from old age. The hum from the refrigerator overcomes the heater's intensity, beside it is where a tiny dining table is placed—fit for two though only one chair remains. You're relieve that father had reserved a room with a single window, you might've succumb into madness from the constant noises from others through the walls of the building.
Different stores all around, cracked pavements slither the asphalts, bystanders come and go with their days—you can almost see everything the town has to offer.
Especially at nighttime.
From a few blocks there is a red neon sign glows the local bar name. Familiar figures entering the doors while their vehicles remain parked by the curb. You witness arguments, sometimes escalating into fights to the point there'll be complaints from sleeping residents about the sirens.
You lift yourself off from the bed, joints aching from being hunched over your assignment for too long. The mattress squeaks back into place when you stand to heat some leftovers from the refrigerator and into the microwave. A weak beep disturbs the stillness as you bring it out to eat, back leaning on the counter for support. Then with a quick rinse and shower you change into your work clothes, not forgetting the uniform jacket they gave you.
You slip your bag over your shoulder and leave the apartment behind, locking your door with a soft click before descending the cramped stairwell. The scent of cigarette smoke and old carpet lingers throughout the building, your footsteps echoing as you ignore a couple arguing through a half-open door.
...
"Any news?" You ask curiously when you spot Lance enter the Visitor Center. You work as a receptionist in the nearest forest park—answering tourist questions, organizing maps and brochures, and checking trail permits. All of this is what you're supposed to do if there are any determined visitors who want to come into the park at night. Instead, you swivel in your chair behind the front desk to pass time. The only job you can do is whenever the rangers need assistance.
Not you don't mind, it actually pays well. Besides the fact they raise the salary for the sake of additional safety measure during evenings.
"I saw the lights on Sector Nine's watchtower in school." Lance removes his cap the second he steps inside, running a hand through his hair before exhaling heavily. Dirt stains the knees of his cargo pants and scratches sprawl faintly in his arms, likely from investigating too close to the thicker parts of the forest again with the team.
"College kid." He answers while dropping two papers on the polished wood. You glance at the forms as he speaks. "Twenty-one. Came with friends this morning."
"Let me guess—he wandered off." The scoff from him denies your assumption. It always starts with ignorance, then leaving the designated trails, and a whole search party until sunrise. You take the forms to examine it properly while Lance busies himself in downing a cup of coffee near the brochures. A familiar missing poster greets you, with the name and picture of the said person along with another paper containing the full report.
Dared the kid to jump over the prohibited area...never came back after a few minutes. You huff your disappointment. Of course. Why do they even think of that?
The radios that both of you have around the utility belt crackles softy before another staff speaks, followed by static. You head towards the bulletin board, already full and overlapping, to pin the latest victim of the woods. "You got anything at least?"
"Yeah," Lance grimaces at the bad bittersweet taste of the coffee after taking a sip. "His backpack was with him. Already undergoing inspection."
"Better than nothing." You take one last look at the board to smooth the new poster. The older ones beneath were losing its inks, edges curled from age, the faces beginning to blur as they stare back at you from months—even years—ago. No bodies, no conclusions. Only now the suspect left evidence that either might bring new or empty promises. Outside the large windows of the Visitor Center, the main streets of the park casts warm yellows from the lampposts around up until the parking lot. The remaining guests had already left before sunset, leaving only the rangers and staff who takes the nightshift.
Lance's radio crackles. "Unit Three returning from checkpoint."
More static follows as you listen before the connection dies completely. Lance glances towards over the rim of the coffee cup, but says nothing. It never goes unnoticed how the communication at night is oddly disruptive, even if everything is stable at the radio tower. They've dismissed the problem in the end, quoting "as long as the comms are delivered."
You go back to the front desk, grabbing the report to fold and hide it in one of your pockets. You're never allowed to participate in the searches, yet somehow with enough persuasion about the archives and records inside the Visitor Center—plus under Lance's supervision—the management permitted you to the printed copies of certain reports.
But to you, it's different.
Lance leans on the front desk, placing the terrible coffee with a quiet clink. "I still don't get why you collect those." A tiny grin forms. "Planning to make a conspiracy board?"
"I really don't have space for that in my place." You laugh, swiveling around the chair again. "And it's nicer than staring at the ceiling during working hours."
He pauses for a moment, then cocks his head a little. "...you're holding up well kid? I heard what happened at school."
You like Lance. He basically took upon himself to make sure you're well after you were hired, and like most he's aware of your living condition. He always brings extra meals for you to eat and bring home, checking in as well sometimes by dragging you to his grandmother's place whenever he thinks you've been isolating yourself too much. You still find it surprising he's not married at his age; any woman would've pursued him by now—steady job, nurturing, good reputation around town. Even older residents trust him enough to leave their children wandering around the forest park whenever he's scheduled in the mornings.
You bite your tongue not to joke, knowing Lance means well. "Yeah, I'm good."
"Some of us want to see you graduate you know," He mutters but loud enough for you to hear, his coffee cold and forgotten. "You have better things ahead of you rather than being stuck in this town."
You lean back further into the chair and let the silence answer for you. Lance glances toward the clock that is on the wall behind you before pulling his phone out from his pocket. The brightness illuminates the tired lines on his face briefly as he checks the screen.
"I have to make a call." He then turns back to the entrance doors, automatically sliding open with a sharp hiss when he's near enough to be detected. "I'll be back with the food."
You watch as he disappears to the side, only his shadow can be seen in your peripheral. Your jaw clenches. If you only knew.
Your work ends at eight on weekdays, while ten on weekends. Walking back to the apartment building with little to no one in sight never bother you before. Store lights shut one by one, occasional passing cars disturbing the peace. Cold air wafts through but never extinguish the warmth inside of the plastic container smuggled in an extra bag that Lance always carry and give.
By morning, the missing college student will already be the topic of conversation in the class. Some be sympathetic, anxious, or perhaps turn it into a ghost story to entertain themselves. Other times they blame it on you—spreading rumors that your family brought curse into the place.
You stop your tracks, eyes still straight ahead as your mind focuses on something.
On someone.
There's a diner closing ahead, and two of the workers you recognize came out from the jingling door talking loudly. You immediately hide in the nearest alleyway when they turn, going through the dark spaces you've became aware of many times until you're at the back of the diner where the dumpster is. You continue walking to the other side until you see the street light looming the workers' figures to the ground.
And hidden like you in the alley, is a stranger. You're not sure if it's a man or a woman from the layers: a denim jacket and a hoodie underneath—the said hood pull over to their head. But it doesn't matter. The filth you smell earlier in the open area is stronger now, and the sweetness attempting to cover it is nothing but a burnt wax.
Carefully you set the bag of food down and slowly approach the stranger, avoiding any broken glass or crumpled wrappers that'll made them whip around. The voices of the workers are getting close too, making the stranger bend their knees a little. You can see their left hand—cracking lowly as they elongate to the point its uncanny. Nails sharpening themselves where its cuticles ooze red lines that drip.
You feel as though the alley narrows around both of you as you sneak. Their shoulders twitching beneath the jacket as their bones continue to twist in such force. Laughter echoed on the streets, blissfully unaware of the danger. A growl escapes from the stranger's mouth, bending lower as they ready to pounce.
You move quickly. One hand grabs the stranger from the hood the other locking around the jaw. They thrash, their startled noise distorted and unhuman. By your fingers you feel their jaw widening—ripping—then a crack rings sharply through the alley as they went limp.
The voices pause, but you're already dragging the body further in the dark. The workers will just dismiss the noise, then by the next day the corpse vanishes in thin air, leaving a charred smell where the public will assume it's only cigar butts.
You are a curse in the town. But as long as you stay within your purpose, there is no need to delve deeper into his forest.
Want your own story? Drabble? One shot? Or need help with your oc? I do writing commissions! See Commission Guideline if you're interested.
Importance Before Reading:
Most character ages are over eighteen. The reader will age in the future chapters. Sally and BEN are written as minors.
The author may insert some own character names that can help fill the story's plot.
English is not the author's first language.
2nd POV, uses [Y/N]
Contains violence and profanities!
━⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅━
Act I: Senior Year. - Chapter 1. || 2 || 3
You grimly stare at whatever concoction those idiotic people had made. There's a foul stench coming from locker when you came near it along with constant drips, and after inserting the combination to unlock the metal door a disgusting rot spills on to the floor. It didn't stain your shoes, but the snicker from a few rows away feels like it did. The mysterious substance is in a plastic bottle, the cap lodged useless one of the corners of your locker that left a trail of wetness, a clear loss from trying its best to contain the explosion.
You are aware this will happen. You and the other unfortunate souls in the school are always the main target of being mocked and humiliated—all because you don't 'fit' in the stereotypical standard of high school life. Hot and rich, charm over intelligence. Delusions instead of reality. You have seen and experienced it all since middle school. Just one more year and you'll be gone in this place.
But it seems the world favors them. Information spreads like wildfire in the town. And when they heard about divorce papers signing, the man of the house out of the picture then your mother passing away—you became something to sympathize and victimized further.
"Guess the apple doesn't fall far." Someone mutters, follow by quiet laughter.
You sigh, not from defeat but from annoyance. You reach inside of the locker to pull the oozing bottle from the neck, the liquid quickly damping your fingers. You didn't care at the moment; you won't be the only one who will be covered in this stuff. The smell grows stronger in the halls, now exposed that it makes someone's throat crawl out.
You turn to the snickering group and with a smile and throw the bottle.
The satisfying yelps echo, many heads whipping from where you stand. Their clothes—awfully bought with a high price—are now stained with the said solution, the stench clinging on to them like a lifeline. A shout rings out from the nearest teacher, followed by hurried stomps. And soon after you find yourself in an all-too-familiar office.
"[Y/N]." Mr. Hale starts, facing you with a stern yet tired expression across his desk. A finger taps against the polished hardwood while you sit comfortably as you wipe your hands with a tissue that he offered when you entered. You can tell Mr. Hale is doing his best to defy his patience. "Do you know how many time you were sent in here?"
You made no sound as the principal continues. "It's early October—and within this past two month all I received from is nothing but reports!" Mr. Hale opens the folder on his desk to skim through the fastened papers. "You weren't like this back then. You disrupted the hallway, damaged a property. This could've been handled maturely."
He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts and control his voice. He lowers his tone. "You've been through a lot, I understand. But harming other students is not an excuse for your grief."
The clock on the wall ticks. Every second the ends of Mr. Hale's lips contort to a frown as he waits for an answer. You lean further on the chair, making it creak under your weight. "I'm just returning the favor and proving them right."
"This is serious [Y/N]." His voice raises. "I could suspend—expel you. Permanent marks on your record."
"It's my last year, Mr. Hale." You retort, not in defense but rather factual. "I'm only making things even."
Mr. Hale presses his lips now in a thin line. He tries again, this time adding control. "You think that makes you safe?"
You pretend to think, even tilting your head a little for a dramatic display. "Well...considering those idiots are nothing but parasites and finally got what they deserved in a public space...Plus, if the student body finds out I was the one who got—let's say expelled—rather than them—not to mention using my parents to add more pity—"
"Then yes." A daring smile stretches across your features. You find it amusing that Mr. Hale is confused; here he thought all of this was caused by losing your parents and not the constant torment of others where he did nothing, to engross in the school's image and so-called charity from the rich families than dealing with the conditions of the helpless.
"Clean up the mess." Order Mr. Hale with a sharp glare as he stands from his seat to straighten his tie. "And you will stay out of trouble."
The chair legs scrape against the floor and interrupts the quiet room when you stand, no bid of goodbye or thanks as you reach for the door and turn the knob. The bell already rung when you were escorted to the office, so there's not a single student in sight in the hall that you're standing on.
You relish the silence. it's clear you won't be attending your morning class, taking the janitor's job momentarily to clean the spills before going on your day. But you don't mind—you can catch up to your lessons by simply resolving your excuse to your teachers. You use this opportunity as well to be alone for a moment. You make your way to the nearest janitorial closet to retrieve the mop bucket, luckily the closet has a wash sink. The cool water mixes with the detergent that you poured slowly fills the tub, once it's full you grab a couple of towels for your locker.
The divorce and funeral were expected to be fair—to you at least. In both of you parents' family line, there's been a tradition where a certain age of their child the members will leave, and if any sibling is present, they need to live with whichever parent remains. In short—the first born is destined to be alone.
It's the main reason why your school years are rough. Now that the tradition had happened, it added more oil to the fires, hoping to gnaw the blame on you. Long before the paperwork and black clothing, your parents were kind and patient enough to make you understand. Of course, you were frightened at first, a natural emotion during childhood. Then you grew to accept and endure it. You admit to yourself when you exchanged the last hugs and smiles with your father and sibling, the melancholic feeling will forever be shared.
The floors and your locker smells faintly of detergent now as you finish wringing the last towel out. You return the cleaning equipment back to the closet before rinsing your hands. The bell already rung twice by the time you reach the classroom. Through the narrow window in the door everyone is seated, either doing schoolwork or finding something to keep them entertain while waiting for break. You knock in rhythm before entering.
"[Y/N]? Where have you been?" The teacher—Ms. Davis—questions in raised eyebrows despite knowing the reason. Her gaze lingers more than a second when she sees the cuffs of your flannel damped.
"Office." You answer anyway, making a beeline to your desk. Ms. Davis watches in concern—she was the first to send condolences to you, always been the one who tries in her power to protect the helpless students in the school. You and the others like her, never belittle your "place" in the hierarchy.
She resumes in her lecture after summarizing what you've missed during your absence. You ignore the hidden glances at your way—some weary, some feigning amusement, and those whose brimming you down like prey. A chair screeches somewhere near the back; someone utters their disgust under their breath—either about you or the faint smell that is still clinging on your sleeves despite the citrus detergent, sour and rotten. You never complain, never let them have the last laugh.
You tap your pen on the pages of your notebook, half of your attention drifts to the window. Across the football field, through the road leading out of the town, and over the chain fences lies the forest. The mayor turned some parts of it into a forest park years ago, now consider as the town's main attraction for both locals and tourists. Trails, campgrounds, guided tours all over the safe sections—always crowded when the right seasons came.
You lift your gaze to the skies, just against the treeline. Among the greens stands one of the watchtowers, barely visible to the naked eye. It acts as an angel for the hikers, not wanting them to be lost in the woods—and yet their bulletin board is still overflowing with missing posters. The warning signs nailed beside the trails often gets ignored, wanting to explore the wilderness beyond the security. You've heard complaints, but the park never closes. And each news always reports an animal devouring the poor person.
Everybody stopped believing in that repetitive information. You likely suspect some of those missing people had the urge to become a self-proclaimed detective, to capture what or who is responsible for the disappearances.
Or they're just reckless in general.
A sudden kick hits the legs of your chair; it makes you jolt and grip your pen while the other holds the edge of your desk. The ones near your look at your way. Noticing this the perpetrator kicks the legs again that earned scattered snickers across the classroom.
You don't bother to turn around when your seat bumps forward. You can feel the dissatisfaction behind you, then a slight creak of their desk as they lean forward near your ear. The amusement in their whisper hidden poorly. "Careful, might snap and go feral again."
"If you have enough energy to cause a distraction, then perhaps you would like to participate in today's discussion." The laughter dies down fast when Ms. Davis pauses and glances your way, the students around you steer away while her eyes set to the student at your back. She stares a few seconds more before she resumes the lecture with a sigh.
We are really lucky to have her. Your grip around the pen tightens briefly to relax again. Your attention goes back to the window for a moment, beyond the the town limits of the woods.
The watchtower lights are on. And the sun is not in the horizon yet. Nobody reacts—too busy with their conversations or to the lecture and Ms. Davis writing across the board.
You stare at the distant tower, the familiar unease stirs through as you tap your pen now in haste.
The tower lights only turn on at night or during searches. And searches only happens when someone doesn't come back.
