The Loop

Cillian ran.

He ran until his lungs burned, sprinting back down the path toward the Inn. The fog was alive now. Shadows grabbed at his ankles. He saw faces in the mist—men’s faces, screaming, mouths open in silent agony. The authors of the journals.

He reached the Inn. He grabbed his duffel bag. The money. He needed the money.

He scrambled out the front door and ran to his car. He knew it wouldn't start, but he had to try. He had to get away from this place.

He reached the Audi.

He stopped, breath heaving.

The car wasn't just broken down.

It was rusted. The paint had peeled away. The tires were disintegrated. Vines had grown through the wheel wells and wrapped around the steering column. The leather interior was moldy and rotted.

It looked like it had been sitting there for fifty years.

"No," Cillian whispered, backing away. "I just got here yesterday. I just..."

He looked at his hands. They were trembling uncontrollably.

He looked at the town. The Victorian houses weren't just old; they were phantom structures, shifting in and out of existence.

He hadn't driven to a town. He had driven into a trap. A pocket of time where she kept her food.

He heard the humming sound again. Closer this time.

She was coming.

He couldn't leave. The boat—she probably controlled the water too.

The Inn. The cellar. Stone walls. Heavy door. It was the only defensible position.

Cillian turned and ran back into the house that wanted to eat him.