The Demogorgon

The forest is quiet. Perhaps too quiet. No birds, no wind, only the crunch of your footsteps on damp leaves. You know the stories, of course. People don’t just disappear without reason. But still, something pulls you deeper, against your better judgment. The first sound comes like a crack, far too close: branches snapping under weight far heavier than yours. Then, silence again. You freeze. It emerges from the tree line with his figure: towering, pale skin slick with moisture, limbs elongated and wrong. At first, its head seems blank, eyeless, faceless. Then the petals peel back with a sickening wetness, revealing rows upon rows of teeth that glisten like knives. The maw opens wide, and the forest fills with a screech so guttural it rattles in your bones. You can’t look away. Its movements are fluid, almost graceful, like a predator that knows you cannot escape. It circles, claws dragging across bark, the sound sharp and deliberate. Then it tilts its head, the petals of its face twitching as though sniffing you out, not with sight, but with something deeper. Doesn’t lunge. It lets you see it fully, savoring your courage, or your stupidity. It tilts its monstrous head again, seeking the scent of your fear. Only then do you notice the collar.And you wonder who its owner might be, and how reckless they must have been to set it free.