Stacy sat curled by the fogged window of her aging forest manor, the long velvet sleeves of her midnight-blue dress brushing against the frame as she leaned in close. The carved wood beneath her gloved fingers was cool and dust-worn, like everything in the crumbling estate. Her white antlers, delicate and spiraling like polished ivory, grazed the edge of a moth-eaten curtain embroidered with faded roses. Outside, the mist rolled in thick as milk, and the cold rain tapped rhythmically on the windowpane, a lullaby that never quite soothed her.
The fire in the parlor had burned down to red-orange coals, casting slow-moving shadows along the stone walls lined with antique paintings and tarnished candle sconces. It was late. Too late. She should've gone to bed hours ago, but unease clung to her bones like a second skin.
She couldn't shake it—the feeling that something was wrong.
It wasn't just the rain, or the mist swallowing the forest like a great pale beast. It was the way the world outside had gone utterly still. No rustling branches. No chirping of crickets. No hoot of owl or pad of fox. The silence was complete, unnatural. It felt like the woods themselves were holding their breath.
She bit her lip and sat up straighter, brushing a lock of blonde hair away from her pale cheek. The old lace of her collar itched her throat, but she didn't dare change. It made her feel safe, somehow—elegant, untouchable. Like the heroine of some long-forgotten tragedy.
Then it came.
A sound. Just one.
Not thunder, not the rain. A snap. Wood breaking under pressure. Not nearby, but not far either. Her ears twitched—pure white, soft velvet—and swiveled toward the sound.
A branch. A footstep?
Her breath hitched.
She pressed her palm flat to the cold glass and leaned forward. The outside was thick with fog, but she thought—no, she swore—she saw something move. A darker shape in the mist. A shape with purpose. It moved not like an animal, but like something that knew how to move without being seen.
Her heart pounded hard against her ribs. She pushed away from the window, the wooden floor creaking beneath her hooves. The hem of her long skirt whispered as it trailed behind her, laced with damp dust from the cracked stone floor.
She moved to the door.
She didn't want to open it.
But she had to.
She placed one hand—gloved in delicate black lace—on the wrought-iron handle. Rain dripped from the eaves above, tapping against the doorstep in an uneven rhythm. Her reflection shimmered in the leaded glass of the door's window, wide amber eyes staring back.
"Hello?" she called, her voice little more than a whisper.
No response.
Just the rain.
She opened the door.
The cold slapped her across the face. Her breath came out in misted puffs, curling into the thick fog that blanketed the ground like a burial shroud. She stepped outside, trembling as the wind tugged at her gown.
"Is someone there?" she said, louder this time. Her voice wavered at the end.
Something shifted in the woods. A shape moved just out of sight—too slow to be a deer, too large to be a raccoon. She stepped back instinctively, but curiosity rooted her to the spot. That—and the feeling that if she ran, it would chase her.
Another step, quiet and methodical, broke the silence.
And then... silence again.
She stood still, waiting. Listening.
Then came the breath. Not hers. Not close. But deep. Drawn in slowly, like someone savoring the scent of a meal before the first bite.
She turned to bolt.
But a voice came from the darkness—not loud, not even angry. Just calm. Precise. Like someone talking to themselves in a butcher's kitchen.
"Don't run. I hate when they run. Makes the meat all tough."
Her breath caught.
A shadow emerged from the trees, tall and thin, cloaked in a patchwork of dark fabrics and bark-colored leathers. His face was partially covered in a ski mask or baklava. The gleam of metal flashed near his chest. A hunting knife. She saw the long barrel of a rifle slung over his back. A scope glinted in the moonlight.
He moved like he wasn't afraid of anything. Like he'd done this before. Many times.
She backed up toward the door, but he shook his head.
"I wouldn't," he said softly. "This whole place is mine now."
She stared at him, tears rising behind her eyes. "What do you want?"
He tilted his head, eyes almost grinning.
"Nothing personal. Just a rare opportunity."
She slammed the door and ran.
Her hooves clattered across the parlor floor as she fled to the old staircase, her mind racing. Her breath came in gasps. She could hear the wind screaming outside. Or was that her?
The door burst open behind her with a sharp crack of splintering wood.
She screamed.
He was in the house now. Inside. The hunter in the walls.
She ran upstairs, her skirts snagging on a broken bannister. She tore free and ducked into the first door she could find—her childhood bedroom. She slammed it shut and shoved a dresser in front of it, her fingers slipping on the wood. Her breath came ragged, body trembling, sweat mingling with rainwater on her skin.
Then the footsteps started.
He didn't speak this time. Just walked, slow and deliberate, through the creaking halls of the house.
The boards groaned beneath him.
A knock.
On her door.
Knuckles rapping slowly. Once. Twice. A third time.
Then silence.
She sobbed quietly, backing away from the door. "Please go away. Please... please..."
He didn't answer. She heard a faint sound, like something scraping against the floorboards just outside.
And then...
Nothing.
The quiet was worse than the noise.
She waited. Seconds. Minutes. An hour?
She didn't know.
Eventually, she crept forward.
Pressed her ear to the door.
Nothing.
She took a breath.
And then the wall beside her exploded inward.
She screamed as the hunter burst through the plaster with the smooth, brutal strength of someone who'd studied prey. His hand wrapped around her throat—not hard enough to choke, just to hold her still.
"Did you really think you could hide?" he whispered.
She flailed, kicked, her hooves denting the floor.
But he was stronger.
He didn't raise the knife. Not yet. Just stared at her with cold, curious eyes behind the mask.
"I've tracked creatures across frozen tundras and burning deserts," he said, voice low. "But none of them screamed like you."
She sobbed.
And then, at last, he raised the weapon.
A thunderous crack.
Her body went limp.
She collapsed in a tangle of lace and velvet, her white antlers catching the moonlight as her blonde hair pooled around her face like liquid gold.
The hunter stood over her, lowering the rifle with a satisfied breath. The rain still fell outside. The house creaked and groaned with the weight of the storm.
But inside, all was quiet again.
Just the way he liked it.