Campfire Tales

The snow didn’t fall so much as it attacked. White streaks hammered the windshield of Ava’s sedan, creating a hypnotic tunnel of rushing flakes that the wipers fought to clear. Route 52 was a black vein cutting through the heart of the forest, empty and swallowed by the December night.

Ava gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned the color of old parchment. The heat blasted from the vents, but a chill sat deep in her spine, one that had nothing to do with the temperature. She hated this road. She hated driving it at night. But the detour had been mandatory, forcing her back onto the winding stretch of asphalt she had avoided for years.

"Just a few more miles," she whispered to the empty car. Her voice sounded thin, swallowed by the drumming of the wind against the glass.

The rearview mirror caught a flicker of motion.

At first, she thought it was a trick of the storm—a shadow cast by a swaying pine. But the shadow grew. It detached itself from the tree line and merged with the road behind her. It wasn’t another car. There were no headlights, only the dull, sickly glow of lanterns swaying in the dark.

Ava frowned, squinting into the mirror. It looked like a carriage.

A nervous laugh bubbled up in her throat. "Right. A horse-drawn carriage on Route 52."

But the laugh died as the shape surged forward. It moved with impossible speed, closing the gap between them in seconds. It stalked through the air, deliberate and menacing.

Ava pressed down on the gas. Her speedometer climbed—fifty, sixty, sixty-five. The road was slick with ice, and her tires spun momentarily before catching traction. She risked another glance in the mirror.

The thing was right on her bumper.

It was a carriage, but it was a monstrosity. A grotesque union of rotted wood and rusted iron, its frame fortified with jagged spikes and dangling chains that scraped the asphalt. The carriage’s wood was black and slick, resembling the lid of a wet coffin, and it pulsed with a menacing energy, ancient and predatory.

And the horses—if you could call them that—were nightmares made flesh. Two massive beasts, skin pulled tight over skeletal frames, their breath venting in thick, sulfurous clouds. Patches of flesh were missing, revealing glistening sinew and bone beneath. Their eyes burned with a cold, green fire.

Ava screamed as something unseen slammed into her car. A pressure, crushing and cold, radiated from the carriage, as if the weight of a tomb pressed through metal and gristle. The engine’s roar was muffled by a chill that burrowed into her core, snuffing out heat and hope alike, as icy mist swirled across her windows and suffocated the world inside.

The sedan fishtailed, sliding dangerously toward the ditch. Ava wrestled the wheel, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She corrected the slide just in time, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"What do you want from me?" she screamed, her voice cracking, the words swallowed by the storm—and the driver’s unyielding silence.

She looked back again. The driver sat high on the bench, a silhouette darker than the night around him. He wore a tattered black cloak that whipped violently in the wind, shreds of fabric looking like torn wings. His face was hidden deep within a cowl, but two pinpricks of hollow yellow light burned from the darkness, fixed solely on her.

The carriage pulled into the left lane, matching her speed perfectly. It loomed beside her, a wall of rotting wood and malice.

Ava stomped on the accelerator, pushing seventy-five. The engine whined in protest. The carriage didn’t falter. It kept pace effortlessly, the skeletal horses galloping in terrifying silence. The only sound was the grinding of the iron-rimmed wheels and the chains rattling like loose bone.

Then something unthinkable stabbed through the chaos—a wet, hollow chorus, like a hundred voices screaming underwater. The air vibrated, oppressive and unnatural, gnawing at the edge of sanity, as if the night itself was howling with grief.

The carriage drifted closer, encroaching on her lane. Ava swerved toward the shoulder, gravel and ice spraying into the wheel wells.

"Get away!" she cried, tears blurring her vision.

The world outside began to warp. The familiar trees of Route 52 twisted into grotesque, clawing shapes, their shadows stretching unnaturally. Snowflakes hung suspended mid-fall, frozen as though time itself had splintered. She was no longer on a road; she was moving through a passage carved by the driver’s will.

The carriage surged ahead, cutting sharply in front of her. Ava slammed on the brakes.

The sedan locked up, skidding across the black ice. The world spun—trees, snow, darkness, carriage—until the car slammed into a snowbank with a bone-jarring crunch.

A heavy stillness fell, broken only by the ringing in Ava’s ears.

The engine sputtered and died. The headlights flickered, casting erratic beams onto the snow. Ava sat frozen, her hands shaking so hard she couldn’t unclench them from the wheel.

Ahead, the carriage had stopped.

It sat in the middle of the road, blocking her path. The lanterns on its side burned with a greasy, green flame. The horses stood unnaturally still, their heads lowered, steam hissing from their flanks.

Slowly, the driver descended.

He spilled from the seat like thick, black oil, his movements fluid yet unnatural. Rising to his full height, he stood gaunt and towering on the road. As he advanced toward her car, the wind stilled, and the forest seemed to hold its breath.

Fingers trembling, Ava clawed at the door lock to ensure it was secure. She reached for the passenger side. Locked. She was ensnared in a steel cage, with the shadowed figure of death closing in.

The figure stopped just outside her window. His stench seeped through—a sickening blend of damp earth and copper. The cowl shifted, revealing a face stripped of flesh, polished bone glinting in the lantern light.

Ava’s chest tightened. She knew that face. Or rather, she knew the shape of the skull—the way the jaw sat slightly askew, forever crooked.

A memory, sharp and violent, pierced through her panic.

***

Five years ago, the road was a void, swallowed whole by the blizzard. Headlights barely cut through the chaos, the storm devouring everything in its path. Ava’s breath stank of liquor, her pulse erratic, the party’s pounding bass still echoing in her skull. Her hands clamped the wheel, knuckles bloodless against the leather, as if sheer force could keep her steady.

Then—black. A flash. A shape in the road. No time to think. No time to react.

The impact was a grotesque symphony: the crunch of metal colliding with flesh, the wet snap of bone, the muffled thud of a body crumpling to the ground. The car bucked violently, tires shrieking as they skidded across the ice. Ava’s mind fractured, replaying the sounds in a sickening loop, each note sharper than the last.

She slammed the brakes. The sedan lurched to a halt, its red taillights bleeding into the snow. Her breath came in jagged gasps as she dared to glance in the rearview mirror.

There he was.

A broken silhouette sprawled in the snow, limbs bent at angles that defied nature. Blood seeped out beneath him, dark tendrils spreading like claws across the ice. His coat lay open, his jaw slack.

Ava’s chest constricted, panic surging like a flood. She stumbled out of the car, the wind slicing through her thin party dress, boots crunching on blood-soaked slush. The world was eerily silent, save for her ragged breathing. She hovered over the body, nausea rising as guilt wrenched its way up her throat.

A few feet away, a car sat partially engulfed by snow, its hazard lights blinking weakly, casting faint, rhythmic flashes over the scene. A tire iron lay discarded near the man’s outstretched hand, half-buried in the slush. Her stomach twisted, bile burning the back of her throat.

Their eyes met.

There was a terrible knowing in his glassy, unblinking gaze—and something worse: accusation.  She wanted to scream, to call for help, to do something, but her body betrayed her, frozen in place. “It was an accident,” she whispered, her voice trembling, arms clutching her shaking frame.

Then his lips moved. A gurgling rasp escaped, wet and broken.

“I don’t want to die.”

The words hit her like a blow. Ava staggered back, her legs buckling as she collapsed to her knees in the snow. The cold bit into her skin, but it was nothing compared to the horror blooming inside her. She wanted to help, to save him, to undo what had just happened—but dread rooted her in place, paralyzing her.

Then something primal took over, and she ran.

Scrambling back to her car, she slammed the door and locked it, as if the thin barrier of steel and glass could shield her from the nightmare she’d created. Her fingers trembled on the wheel, her knuckles white as the snow outside. She floored the gas, the tires spinning before catching, and sped down the road, refusing to look in the mirror. She couldn’t bear to see the truth she’d left behind.

That night, she hid beneath the city’s amber haze, blankets pulled tight around her trembling body. But she never truly left Route 52. The shame burrowed deep, gnawing at her with every passing winter. She never called. She never confessed. The storm erased him, but the memory refused to fade.

In her dreams, the snow was always red.

And the silence, always waiting.

***

Ava stared into the hollow eyes of the figure outside her window, her breath fogging the glass between them. The glow in its sockets was searching, peeling back layers of her mind like frostbitten skin.

"It's you," she whispered.

The skeletal figure raised a hand. One bony finger pointed at her, then slowly curled back, pointing to the road behind them.

The specter didn’t speak, but his voice echoed inside her skull, dry as dead leaves.

You left me.

"I panicked," Ava sobbed, pressing herself against the passenger door. "I was scared. I’m so sorry."

The figure leaned closer. The glass frosted over rapidly, creating a web of ice that obscured his face, but the glowing eyes burned through.

Your fear won’t save you. Guilt clings like a shadow—and every debt is paid in the end.

The carriage behind him let out a terrible, grinding moan. The horses reared, their eyes blazing. The driver turned and glided back to his machine. He climbed up, took the reins, and looked back at her one last time.

Drive, Ava!

The command blasted through her mind.

The carriage exploded into motion, turning in a tight circle, its wheels screaming against the asphalt. It faced her car. The horses pawed the ground, their heads lowering like bulls ready to charge, steam curling from their flared nostrils.

Ava screamed, fumbling with the ignition. The engine coughed, sputtered, and finally roared to life. She threw the car into reverse just as the carriage thundered forward. The horses’ hooves struck sparks against the icy road, their eyes glowing like embers. She spun the wheel, whipping the car around, and floored it.

She didn’t look back.

She drove until the fuel light screamed and the sun began to bleed gray light over the horizon. The carriage had vanished miles ago, dissolving into the mist as dawn approached, but the sound of it—that grinding, metallic shriek—still echoed in her ears.

Ava never drove Route 52 again. She sold her car, moved to another city, and tried to forget. But forgetting was a luxury beyond her reach.

Her nights became a battleground. Each time she closed her eyes, the carriage returned, its iron-rimmed wheels carving through her dreams. The driver’s hollow eyes burned into her soul, and the horses’ caustic breath choked her, leaving her gasping for air in the oppressive dark of her bedroom.

But the days were worse.

The sound of hooves echoed in the distance, growing louder when she was alone. Shadows flickered in her peripheral vision, darting just out of reach. Once, she swore she saw the carriage reflected in a shop window, its green lanterns swaying like pendulums. When she turned, the street was empty.

Objects in her apartment challenged reason. A coffee mug slid across the counter, its movement slow and deliberate, as if pushed by an unseen hand. A book toppled from the shelf, the thud echoing through the silence, though no one was near. Frost clawed its way across her windows, defying the warmth of the heated air, etching jagged, sinister lines that twisted into the unmistakable shape of her name.

She stopped sleeping. She stopped leaving her apartment. The air inside grew colder, the shadows deeper, as if the walls themselves conspired to close in. And sometimes, in the dead of night, she heard it—the relentless scrape of rusted wheels, just outside her building. Distant, but insistent. A promise whispered in the dark.

Tonight, the wind howled, carrying with it a new sound. A wet, grating scrape, like bone dragged across stone, echoing from the street below. Ava pressed her back against the wall, her breath shallow and uneven. Was it real? Or was it the memory, gnawing at the fragile edges of her sanity?

The lantern’s green glow flickered in the reflection of her window, casting a long, twisted shadow that slithered across her floor. It waited. The debt had not been forgotten.

Frost thickened on the glass, spreading like jagged veins, as the air turned sharp with the acrid tang of sulfur. The sound of hooves grew louder, the grind of wheels more relentless, each creak a harbinger of something ancient and unyielding. Ava’s chest tightened as the shadow stretched toward her, impossibly long, oppressively dark, swallowing the light.

Then, a whisper. Low and rasping, like wind threading through brittle leaves.

“He’s coming.”

Ava’s wide eyes snapped to the corner where the shadows pooled deepest. The darkness writhed, coalescing into a hunched, skeletal figure. Its limbs were grotesquely elongated, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. Eyes like dying embers burned with a knowing malice.

Her breath faltered. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound strangled in her throat. The figure leaned forward, its presence suffocating, as the whisper came again, curling around her like smoke.

“Run.”

The lantern’s green glow flared, flooding the room with a sickly light. Ava stumbled toward the door, but her legs buckled, sending her sprawling to the floor. The shadow surged forward, jagged fingers stretching unnaturally, reaching for her throat with a hunger that felt eternal.

She screamed, and the world shattered.

The room dissolved into a void, peeling away like fog torn by a violent wind. When Ava opened her eyes, she was back on Route 52.

The snow fell in smothering waves, swallowing the road in an endless expanse of white. Her breath came in shallow gasps, each exhale a plume of mist in the freezing air. The car was gone. The city was gone. There was only the road, the storm, and the sound.

The scrape of wheels.

It began faint, a distant rasp of iron on ice, but it grew louder with every heartbeat. She turned, her boots crunching in the snow, but the storm devoured everything behind her. Then, through the swirling white, she saw them—the green lanterns, swaying like ghostly beacons in the dark.

She ran.

The snow clung to her legs, dragging her down with every step, but she pushed forward, her lungs burning, her heart pounding a panicked rhythm. The sound followed, relentless, the hooves pounding in rhythm with her pulse. She didn’t dare look back.

The road stretched on, endless and unchanging, a cruel loop that offered no escape. The snow thickened, blinding her, the cold biting through her skin like needles. Her legs screamed for rest, but the sound was closer now—scraping, merciless.

Ava stumbled, collapsing to her knees. The snow burned against her palms, but she clawed forward, her breath hitching in ragged sobs.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling, swallowed by the storm. “Please, no more.”

The scraping stopped.

The silence was worse.

She froze, her body trembling, her breath caught in her throat. Slowly, she turned her head.
The carriage was there.

It loomed out of the storm, a hulking monstrosity of rusted iron and rotted wood, its wheels motionless but carved deep into the ice. The green lanterns cast an eerie glow over the skeletal horses, their breath curling in burning plumes. The driver sat atop the carriage, his unfeeling eyes fixed on her, his skeletal hand gripping the reins with a patience that felt infinite.

Ava’s chest tightened as the driver raised one bony finger, pointing down the road.

She turned back, her heart hammering. The road stretched on, but now it was lined with shadows—figures standing motionless in the snow, their faces obscured. They watched her, their heads tilting in unison, their presence suffocating.

The scraping began again.

The carriage moved, its wheels carving deep grooves into the ice, the sound reverberating through the storm like a death knell. The figures on the roadside began to move too, stepping closer, their shapes flickering like shadows cast by a dying flame.

Ava scrambled to her feet, her legs shaking beneath her. She ran, the snow pulling at her like grasping hands, the cold slicing through her lungs. The figures closed in, their faces still hidden, their movements jerky and unnatural, as if they were marionettes controlled by unseen strings.

The scraping grew louder, the lanterns’ glow brighter, until it consumed everything.

And then she tripped.

The snow swallowed her, the cold seeping into her bones like poison. She clawed at the ground, but her fingers found only ice, slick and unyielding. The scraping stopped, and the shadows loomed over her, their faces finally visible.

Every face was hers—twisted, broken, their eyes wide with terror. Their mouths opened, but no sound came. They stared down at her, unblinking, their expressions frozen in the moment of impact.

The snow beneath her turned red, spreading outward in jagged veins that pulsed like open wounds. Ava’s breath came in shallow gasps as she tried to look away, but the faces surrounded her, closing in, their eyes burning with the same accusation she had seen that night.

The scraping began again, slow and deliberate.

The carriage loomed closer, its green lanterns casting her shadows across the snow. The driver’s eyes bore into her, and she felt the weight of every step she had taken since that night, every mile she had run, every lie she had told herself.

The shadows reached for her, their jagged fingers brushing her skin. She screamed, but the storm devoured the sound, leaving only the scrape of wheels and the hiss of the horses’ breath.

The last thing she saw was her own face reflected in the driver’s hollow eyes, her mouth trembling, forming the words she had heard that night.

“I don’t want to die.”

The snow fell, soft and unrelenting, burying her in its cold embrace. The road stretched on, endless and unforgiving.
 

And the sound of scraping wheels began again.