Great. Just fucking great.
I reach for my bag on the passenger seat, fingers fumbling for my phone. My thumb hovers over my dad’s number, instinct kicking in. He’s who I’d normally call in an emergency. But tonight, I hesitate.
Instead, I swipe to another name—Rook. My breath stops as I stare at it, his name glowing against the dim light of the screen. The rational part of me knows better, but desperation wins out and with a shaky exhale, I presscall.
The phone goes to my ear, the cold surface chilling my skin, but all I hear is an empty beep before the line cuts out.
Fuck.
I lower the phone, frustration bubbling, only to notice the signal bar glaring back at me—empty. My jaw clenches as I toss the phone onto the seat, then lean back for my boots on the floor behind me. Pulling them free, I kick off my heels, their delicate straps useless for the icy road. Slowly, I lace up the boots around my legs and once I’m ready, I grab my phone and push open the door. The night greets me with a freezing bite, the snow falling in thick, heavy flakes. It clings to my hair, my fur jacket, but I ignore it, keeping my head down.
The stillness presses against me as I circle to the front of the car, my eyes glued to the signal bar, waving the phone uselessly in the air. Nothing. No bars, no movement.
I glance up, scanning the deserted road. No headlights, no distant hum of an engine. No one.
Then, I feel something uneasy creep up my spine suddenly, and I look the other way.
Beneath the streetlight, a tall, shadowy figure stands still, bold against the falling snow. My breath holds as my eyes fix on them. They don’t move, don’t acknowledge me, just stand there, letting the snow pile on their broad frame.
My brows knit, confusion warring with anxiety. Who the hell would be out here this late, on Christmas Eve, in the middle of nowhere? A thought flickers through my mind—maybe they can help. Maybe they have a phone with signal.
“Hey!” I call out, my voice cutting through the muffled quiet of the snow.
The figure doesn’t move as my boots crunching in place before I start trudging toward him, each step sinking deeper into the white blanket beneath me. The air grows colder, and heavier, the world narrowing to just the two of us. As I close the distance, the snowfall thins, and I can see him more clearly.
And then I freeze a few feet away.
He stands with his back to me, his posture unnervingly still, as if my presence barely registers. My gaze travels up his form—a pair of black, laced boots planted firmly in the snow, tight black jeans tucked into them, and a black leather jacket with a hood pulled over his head. Silver cursive embroidery gleams across his back, catching the faint light:The Plague.
A ripple of anxiety coils in my stomach.
“Could you help me, sir?” I try again, my voice wobbling despite my attempt to sound calm. “I need a phone. I can’t get signal here…”
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then his gloved hands drop to his sides. One of them holds a long black cane, the shaft wrapped in white, flashing Christmas lights spiralling upward in a twisted mockery of holiday cheer.
Before I can process the bizarre detail, he moves. His head jerks sharply to the side, and I catch my first glimpse of his face—or what’s covering it.
A black matte mask, its surface smooth and shining, with a long, curved beak protruding outward and hollow eye sockets.
The plague doctor mask.
My breath catches, dread seeping into my veins.
“Didn’t your daddy ever teach you not to talk to strangers?” he asks, his voice terrifyingly deep and distorted by what appears to be a voice changer.
I step back instinctively, my boots slipping slightly on the ice. My breathing quickens, each inhale sharper than the last as the primal sense of danger washes over me.
Something’s wrong. Very fuckingwrong.
The air changes and suddenly, he swivels, his movements fluid, and before I can react, he lunges. A scream tears from my throat as I spin on my heel, the snow bites at my legs. My boots try to gain grip as I run and aim for the woods, desperation and adrenaline propelling me forward.
Behind me, the crunch of snow grows louder. I dart through the trees that are layered in white, heart pounding, lungs burning, but no matter how fast I run, I feel him—closer with every step. A glance over my shoulder sends ice through my veins. He’s still following, his stride measured, unhurried, like he’s toying with me.
I veer sharply, pushing through the dense forest, branches clawing at my face and jacket. My sleeve catches on a thick branch, halting me with a sudden jolt. I wrench forward, hearing the fabric tear as my jacket is ripped from my body,leaving me in only my short dress. The cold bites instantly, seeping into my now bare skin.
“One, two, the plague is coming for you. Three, four, you better run, you whore,” he sings from a short distance, the twisted melody echoing through the trees.
Suddenly, I hear something else—bells. Faint at first but growing louder. A jingle that doesn’t belong here, doesn’t belong anywhere, eerily harmonised with the rhythm of his footsteps.
