Something In the Night

                Charlie's POV

        Imagine you’re out in the woods with some friends. One of them has had quite a bit to drink, but you and the rest of your friends are mostly sober. A campfire is going, and after trading stories about various girls and talking about the wildlife you’d spotted earlier on the trail cams stationed in the woods, you decide to head in. Your drunk friend has been passed out for nearly an hour now, and certainly nobody is volunteering to drag his limp form into the cabin. This sparks an idea; just leave him. Turn the lights off in the cabin, put out the fire, and you’re sure to give him a right scare. You’ll laugh about it later, but he’s sure to be ticked when he wakes up. Your friends agree and set to work. What's wrong with a little prank?

                Switch POV

The alcohol is still in effect when you wake up. You’re in shock. Where the heck are you? It’s pitch black. Are you blind? You stumble around, which takes you farther and farther away from your point of origin. Calling out to whoever may be listening, forgetting your friends and the cabin in your drunken stupor, you realize through your haze that you are hopelessly lost. You’ll die out here.

                Charlie's POV

        It’s the anniversary of your old friend’s death. Guilt wracks you, like it will for years to come, hounding you every year until you die. It’s all your fault.

                Years Later

        You find an old file, unnamed. You don't recognize it at all. One of your friends from the time of the incident happens to be with you when you come across it. You open it, and the pictures are imprinted in your memory for all eternity.

        They have the quality of a trail camera, identical to that of which you had set up on the land you used to own, but sold after coming to the conclusion that it was too painful to even visit again. You go through them one at a time, individually, and they play out a story you know all too well, but had never seen yourself. The first three pictures show different shots of a young man, one you happen to have known long, long ago. In the first few, he is stumbling around and cupping his hand to his mouth, lips parted in a silent shout, and the following aren’t too different. In the next, he has fallen down. A bobcat crouches behind him, pounce suggested in it’s posture. You close the window when the next ten, fifteen pictures show nothing but carnage and a dead body.

        You can’t look your friend in the eye, and he leaves without saying goodbye. You think you saw the glitter of tears on his cheek as he swept out the door.

        No trace of the pictures exist by that night.

                Later still

        Your scars that remain from a time long ago in far away woods have all but faded. You’ve settled down now, after all. You’ve got a wife and two beautiful twin daughters to look after, and your girls need you to be their rock, immovable and strong. You won’t crack.

        After much persuasion, your family has decided to go on a camping trip, and you try your hardest to steel yourself for visiting a forest for the first time since that accident that took your friend’s life. You can do it. It wasn’t your fault, right? Of course not. No, of course not.

        The sky is displaying a black the color of obsidian, almost midnight, and you and your wife are the only ones left awake. She’s reading by the light of one of those cheap electronic lanterns. You tell her you’re going to get some sleep. She kisses you softly and turns the light down. You drift off, blissfully unaware that that would be your last human interaction, last kiss, last feeling of safety.

        You wake up, bewildered, flat on your back. Last thing you remember, you were in your tent with your wife. Suddenly it hits you that you’re known for your bouts of sleep walking. Oh god, why now? Where the heck are you? It’s pitch black. Are you blind? You stand up shakily, and stumble forward. A soft rustling behind you makes you scream. Then comes a voice reminiscent of that which belonged to the friend that died out here. “Why’d you do it, Charlie?”The flash of a camera, and the last thing you will ever see is a blur of spotted pelt and your friend in your peripheral vision. Beer in hand, a trail cam in the other, ripped clothes and face split wide. The grimace adorning his face is the most miserable thing you’ve ever had the displeasure of witnessing.

                Switch POV, a recently widowed woman with two twin daughters

        When you return from the funeral, still in your black veil and dress, you are mildly surprised to see a small package sitting on your kitchen table. You can’t think of anyone with your key who might have left it, and there is no labeling. It’s not even indicative that it might be for you.

        You open it anyways. All it contains is a flash drive and a small square of parchment, simply reading, “Returning the favor.” There is no name attached. With shaking hands and quickened breath, you hasten to boot up your laptop and load the memory from the cartridge. The images take your breath away.

        The man you loved (still love) caught quite literally in the jaws of death, his face stark in the black and white imaging. A beast with its fangs locked around your husband’s neck. Not even in your worst nightmare could you have fathomed an image as horrific. But that’s before you see the next picture- a grimacing man who’s holding the camera, staring straight at you with wide eyes, bedraggled hair, and a slashed face. This man was your brother. Your brother, who died 20 years ago in an accident in the woods. He was your brother, and he is standing over Charlie’s dead body.