getting horror movie vibes from the trip your friends were planning, you decided to simply stay home.
It had been a joke, mostly, when you said you were getting horror movie vibes to your friends. They laughed, you laughed, but you still had a point. A little cabin, in the middle of the woods? During summer? That was practically screaming “We’re in a horror movie!”
You had wanted to go, honest, but really, if you had to deal with bugs, no AC access during the middle of summer, and spotty at best cell service? You would’ve laid prone on the ground and wait for the earth to reclaim you.
Your friends go off with promises of awesome pictures and cool looking rocks, and you stay behind, with promises to check up on their places, make sure any pets are alright and no break-ins have occurred.
Their first night there, they all get on a call with you and tell you about the car ride to the cabin, all the stupid songs and weird snacks and silly stories they shared with each other. You laugh along with them, and tell them in excruciating detail about the delicious pizza you are eating that very moment, as they whine and complain halfheartedly.
Their second night there, they complain about the bugs, and tell you about the lake that’s just a 15 minutes walk away from the cabin, how beautiful it is. You all joke about catching fish with bare hands, and a couple of your friends seem to genuinely consider it.
Their third night there, they tell you about the strange sounds at night, the tracks that don’t seem to be made by wild animals, how the woods will fall eerily silent at times. You think about your horror movie comment a few days prior, and you worry.
Their fourth night there, they tell you about these strange rectangular pits they found not far from the cabin, several feet deep and seemingly freshly dug. There are six holes, they tell you, and you think about how there are five of them there, and how you almost went with them.
Their fifth night there, they don’t call, and they don’t pick up. You don’t sleep well.
Their sixth night, only one friend calls, panicked and crying, and tells you that the holes are graves, that something, someone, killed the others. They’re the only one left. You have to help them, they beg of you. But you’re too far away, too powerless, and the call ends soon after.
You call the authorities, leave them an anonymous tip that there’s a group of people out in the woods, dead. You don’t sleep that night.
The seventh day you spend worried, for your last remaining friend, for yourself.
The seventh night you spend paranoid, because there were six graves, and you’re the only one left.
By the eighth night, there is something in your house, and even as you call the police, you know they will be too late.
You lock yourself in your bathroom and cry as the footsteps get closer to your door, as it gets smashed open, wood splintering under the blade of a bloodstained axe.
“I don’t understand,” you manage between your sobs. “I did everything right.”
The killer tilts their head at you, almost pityingly.
“You did.”
The axe swings towards your head.