They took turns like it was a game.

Ghost stories.

Urban legends.

The kind you swear never happened,

but say them anyway

because the dark makes everything sound better.

Someone mentioned the girl in white

who waits at the edge of the lake,

asking for help with her eyes,

never her voice.

Say yes—you vanish.

Say no—you dream of drowning.

Someone else told the story

about the tall thing in the trees,

with arms that bend the wrong way,

but never when you’re looking.

They laughed.

They always laughed.

But it felt thinner this time.

Like the woods were listening too.

The fire cracked sideways.

No wind.

No reason.

Just a sound that felt too deliberate.

A phone buzzed.

Dead screen.

Still buzzing.

Then something shifted by the shoreline.

White.

Still.

Waiting.

They froze.

No one said anything.

Until someone whispered,

“Don’t answer her.”

But someone already had.

The air turned thick,

the trees pressed closer,

and a voice—not theirs—spoke from the dark.

“Thank you for nothing.”

It wasn’t angry.

It was disappointed.

Like it had been hoping for more.

They didn’t sleep that night.

Didn’t leave.

Didn’t speak again

until the morning came

and the girl was gone—

but one of them was too.