The Watcher

The campsite seemed perfect when you arrived—a small clearing nestled between ancient cypress trees, close enough to the swamp to hear the chorus of frogs but far enough to stay dry. Your tent is pitched, your fire crackling pleasantly, casting dancing shadows across the gnarled roots and hanging moss.It's well past midnight now. The fire has burned low, just embers glowing in the darkness. That's when you notice it. The sounds have stopped. No frogs. No insects. No rustling in the underbrush. Just... silence. The kind of silence that feels wrong, like the forest is holding its breath. And then you see it—or think you do. At the very edge of where your firelight reaches, there's a shadow that doesn't quite match the trees. Tall. Too tall. It's standing perfectly still, and you can't make out any details, just a dark silhouette that seems somehow darker than the night around it. You blink, and it's gone. But now you have the unmistakable feeling that something is watching you. Waiting. And whatever it is, it's not in any hurry to leave.