It was after about a month that things started to change. His father announced that he had to go back to the city for some business. Peter felt a chill at the thought of being left alone in that house, but his father's expression was so bleak, so desperate, that Peter couldn't bring himself to ask him to stay.
"I'll be back in three days," his father said, his voice hollow.
Peter nodded, trying to hide his unease. As the car disappeared down the narrow road, Peter was left in a suffocating silence. The hours stretched endlessly before him, and the isolation of the house pressed in on him like a physical weight.
He tried to keep himself busy, following the routine he had set for himself over the past month. He gathered firewood from the edge of the forest, fetched water from the nearby stream, and picked fruit from the few gnarled trees that still bore anything edible. But the air felt heavier that day, the silence more oppressive, as if the forest was watching him, waiting.
As Peter made his way back to the house that evening, a strange sensation washed over him—a feeling of being followed. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he could swear he heard footsteps behind him, matching his own. He turned around sharply, but there was nothing there, just the darkening forest, thick with shadows that seemed to pulse with unseen life.
He quickened his pace, his heart pounding in his chest, but the feeling wouldn't go away. Then, just as he reached the house, he heard it: a faint, distant scream, carried on the wind. It was the sound of pure terror, raw and desperate, and it froze Peter in his tracks.
For a moment, he couldn't move, couldn't think. The scream echoed in his mind, and he felt a cold dread seep into his bones. Then, panic took over, and he bolted into the house, slamming the door behind him and locking it with trembling hands.