The Sweetest Hunger

The front seat was empty.

No driver. No figure hunched forward, no sound of reins being handled—nothing.

Just the reins themselves, thick and weatherworn, flapping wildly like severed lifelines in the wind. The horses surged forward faster now, their pace frantic, panicked, unstoppable.

Eva's scream tore across the wind.

"What?! How is this even possible?"

The horses responded with violent tosses of their heads, hooves striking the earth harder with each beat, eyes rolling white with frenzy. The cart behind her rocked violently, one wheel lifting off the ground for half a second before crashing back into the dirt. It was barely staying upright.

She had seconds to choose—jump from the runaway cart and abandon her unconscious boss… or seize the reins and risk being pulled off entirely.

She didn't think.

She launched forward, teeth clenched, one hand catching the wooden rail, the other slashing through the air toward the dancing reins. They struck her wrist like a whip, the pain sharp, immediate, hot. She gasped but didn't let go—her fingers closed around the rope, skin scraping raw, joints straining.

Birds erupted from the canopy above, screeching as if startled by the sharp crack of the reins striking her flesh. Her feet scrambled against the wooden platform. Her shoulders burned. Her lungs screamed.

But she held.

Behind her, the cart's chaos worsened. With each turn, the structure swayed aggressively. And her boss—unmoving, vulnerable—was being tossed like dead weight inside.

She looked back once—and what she saw nearly undid her.

His skull slammed into the edge of a beam. A streak of red blossomed across his temple. Blood. Slow. Steady. Thick. He didn't flinch. He didn't stir.

Her eyes widened in horror, but just that split second of distraction nearly cost her. The reins slipped. The horses veered.

She whipped her gaze forward, fought to regain control, but something else grabbed her attention—something far worse than the horses, worse than the blood.

A leak.

Near the front wheel, a crate strapped to the side was dripping.

At first, she thought it was oil. But there was no scent. No shine. Just a pale, almost clear ooze trailing down the crate's edge… and then, as if reacting to her stare, the fluid darkened. Thickened. Turned red.

Red like blood.

Not bright. Not watery. But dark. Dense. Like something wounded was bleeding inside.

Her breath caught.

That's not normal. That's not cargo.

She crouched lower, one hand still clutching the reins, the other trembling as it hovered over the box's surface.

And then—without warning—the horses stopped.

A sudden, violent halt.

The entire carriage jolted. Eva flew forward, her ribs slamming against the wooden ledge, knocking the air from her lungs. Her heart surged to her throat. For a moment she couldn't breathe, couldn't hear, couldn't even think.

But then came the sound.

Drip.

Drip.

The liquid from the crate was no longer clear. It was crimson. Almost black. And it didn't just fall. It thudded. Each drop hit the ground with a weight that felt… deliberate.

She staggered toward the crate.

The closer she got, the more wrong it felt. The smell hit her next—faint, iron-rich. Familiar. Not paint. Not rust.

Blood.

She was sure of it now.

Her knees bent slightly, hand hovering near the crack in the crate—and then a sound ripped through the woods like a sword tearing metal.

CLANG—ting!

She jerked upright. Her eyes scanned the trees.

A rabbit.

White. Small. Innocent.

It hopped quietly beneath the brush like nothing had happened. She stared. Confused.

Then she saw it—beneath the darkest part of a tree trunk's shadow.

One eye. Glowing.

Red.

Not like fire. Like something alive. Watching.

She squinted. The harder she looked, the less real it seemed.

CLANG—ting!

Again. This time sharper. Her knees locked.

And then—she blinked.

CLANG—ting!

It struck again. Synced with her blink.

Each time her eyelids shut, even for a fraction of a second, the noise repeated. Inescapable. Brutal.

She clamped a hand to her forehead, willing herself not to blink.

But the fear wasn't done.

A scream burst from behind.

It didn't sound human.

It sounded ancient.

It sounded hungry.

She spun around.

Nothing.

Just the cart.

Just her unconscious boss.

But her stomach churned.

That scream wasn't random.

It was a call.

A summons.

And the knocking started.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Not from one place.

From all sides of the cart.

Wood vibrated.

Another round.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

She stumbled back, her breath hitched in her throat. The cart creaked and groaned under invisible pressure, like something massive was pushing in from the outside.

Her eyes snapped to her boss.

Still. Limp. Pale.

This wasn't him.

He hadn't moved.

She crept closer, fists clenched, ears ringing.

One of the wooden panels cracked.

A hairline fracture stretched along the grain—thin, but real.

Something was trying to break in.

She stepped closer, forcing herself toward the back.

Then the final knock.

Not from outside.

From inside.

Her boss's body jerked—barely, but enough to see.

Eva's scream didn't leave her throat.

She leapt into the cart, heart hammering like a drum on the edge of war. She hit the floor hard, slid forward—nearly collided with his slumped form.

She froze.

His hand twitched.

But it didn't reach for her.

It curled tighter—around nothing.

Around air.

She stared.

And then she heard it again.

A whisper. So faint it was more vibration than voice.

"It's not over."

And beneath them…

…the crate breathed.

She couldn't tell how long she'd been sitting there—spine curved, breath shallow, head bowed like in prayer. But she wasn't praying.

She was waiting.

Waiting for the next sound. The next knock. The next thing that would try to rip through the thin membrane of reason holding her together.

The silence in the cart was not silence at all. It was thick—viscous. Like sound was present, just trapped. Every breath she drew felt filtered through cotton, heavy and delayed. Even her hair, loose around her cheeks, swayed in a way that made no sense—slower than movement should be, like time had softened its grip on this one place.

Outside, the trees swayed, but not with wind. Their branches twitched—rhythmic, sharp, unnatural. Something was leaping between them, maybe. Or watching from above.

The world no longer felt real.

She pressed her fingers together hard, the knuckles white, as if clutching something inside herself from spilling out. Her boss lay sprawled beside her, unmoving, skin paler now, lips graying. His pulse was still there—but shallow. Retreating.

And then it came.

Thud.

One hit. Not a knock. Not part of any rhythm.

Just a strike. Heavy. Scraping.

The sound dragged across the side of the cart like claws on old wood. Then ended in a metallic clang—not of steel, but bone hitting iron.

Her body went cold.

The trees twitched again.

It wasn't just sound anymore. It had weight. Each thud vibrated through her chest, into her jaw, into her bones. Even the air reacted, compressing in her lungs like she was breathing through soaked cloth. The presence outside wasn't approaching. It was already there.

"If I'm feeling this way," she thought, glancing at her boss's sunken chest, "how is he supposed to breathe?"

She moved.

Too fast.

Her body surged forward, but her knee buckled under her—sharp pain lanced through her leg, white-hot, like her bones were trying to tear through her skin. She gasped, bit her tongue, tasted blood—but she didn't stop.