Welcome to the Hunt

A sudden beam of yellow light pierced the suffocating, pitch-black fog.

A wobbly wooden boat crept out from the endless expanse of the dark lake, its rotting planks groaning against the gentle ripples. The moisture in the air carried the heavy, metallic stench of stagnant water.

Three men and four women sat huddled on the damp benches. Seven people in total.

Yet, merely ten minutes ago, there had been eight of them breathing the same icy air.

The seven passengers wore identical expressions of numb, hollow exhaustion. Their features were drawn tight, their eyes darting nervously at the encroaching shadows. A shared, undeniable panic vibrated through the small vessel. The frantic rhythm of their shallow breathing made it glaringly obvious that they had just witnessed something beyond the realm of human sanity.

The small boat continued its agonizingly slow glide until the hull bumped softly against an old, decaying wooden dock near the shore.

Everyone raised their heads in unison. A colossal structure was slowly bleeding through the thick curtain of fog. It was a massive hotel, its intricate gothic spires and heavy stone archways reeking of a forgotten century.

The moment the first passenger placed a trembling boot onto the wooden planks of the dock, the hotel reacted.

A sharp mechanical click echoed through the dead silence. A warm, yellow light flared to life in one of the ground-floor windows. Then another click. And another. The lights began to snap on, illuminating the rooms floor by floor, racing all the way up to the towering top floor until the entire building stood like a glowing beacon in the wilderness.

Before anyone could process the sight, a sharp whistle pierced the air from the pitch-black forest in the distance.

A streak of light shot up into the dark sky, exploding into a shower of sparks. One.

Another whistle followed. Two.

Then three.

The explosions cracked like gunfire against the silence. There were exactly seven fireworks painted across the grim sky. Exactly seven fireworks for the seven remaining people standing on the dock.

The vibrant sparks faded into ash, plunging the sky back into darkness.

Behind them, the water churned. The small boat slowly pushed away from the dock. The solitary lantern hanging at its bow swayed gently, its weak light flickering until the vessel was swallowed whole by the thick fog once more.

The faces of the seven passengers twisted into deeper masks of terror as they watched it leave.

There was no human boatman handling those oars. The position at the stern was occupied by a grotesque scarecrow. Its burlap sack head was tilted at a broken angle, and its stiff, straw-stuffed limbs had been mechanically rowing them across the cursed water the entire time.

They stood frozen in front of the looming hotel. They exchanged desperate, wide-eyed glances, but not a single person was willing to lift their foot and take the first step toward the glowing entrance.

The dark, whispering forest surrounded them on three sides. The freezing, pitch-black lake cut off their retreat. The century-old hotel standing before them offered the only source of light for miles, yet the inviting glow felt like the open maw of a beast waiting to feed.

Their facial muscles twitched. The collective indecision hung heavy in the freezing air.

"Let's go in. Do we have any other choice?"

A male voice shattered the suffocating silence. It belonged to a man who possessed the refined air of a college professor, sporting neat gray hair and a pair of calming, steady blue eyes.

"But, but who knows what the hell is in there."

A beautiful blonde woman responded, her voice trembling violently. She hugged her arms, her fingers nervously twisting the ends of her pale hair.

"What if there's danger?" she added, her breath forming white clouds in the cold.

Silence descended upon the group once again.

When this nightmare began, every single one of them had been buzzing with the thrill of adventure. They had secretly calculated the massive sums of prize money promised to them, dreaming of early retirements and luxury.

But the moment they woke up on that rotting boat, staring at the motionless button eyes of a scarecrow, the illusion shattered. This was no treasure hunt.

This was a hunting game. And they were nothing more than fresh prey.

Gideon Cross took several deep, measured breaths, forcing oxygen into his burning lungs to bring his racing heart rate back to a normal rhythm. His chest pounded so fiercely it felt as though his heart might crack his ribs and leap out of his throat.

He raised his left wrist, tapping the glass of his watch. The second hand was dead, frozen in place.

Despite the broken timepiece, Gideon’s mind remained sharp. He clearly remembered that from the exact second he received the mysterious invitation letter to waking up in this nightmarish fog, less than an hour had passed.

"Have you forgotten about that brave little man?"

The grey-haired professor's quiet question acted like a physical blow.

The blonde woman let out a piercing scream. She dropped to the wooden dock, curling into a tight ball and hugging her head as if trying to squeeze the memories out of her skull.

Ten minutes ago, there had been eight of them.

Gideon and seven others had received an exclusive invitation from a shadowy organizer to participate in a mysterious adventure boasting a staggering cash prize. They had arrived at the designated meeting spot, only to be drugged. When their heavy eyelids finally fluttered open, the harsh reality of the wobbly boat and the foggy lake greeted them.

Among the group was a thin, agile man named Simon Blake.

Simon had been a frantic ball of energy from the moment he woke up. He paced the cramped boat, cursing the organizers, loudly complaining that they had been illegally sedated and kidnapped. Simon dug into his pockets, pulling out his phone to dial emergency services, only to find a dead screen with zero signal. His luxury watch had stopped ticking.

Simon was convinced this was a carefully orchestrated kidnapping plot meant to extort a massive ransom from his wealthy family.

He leaned far over the edge of the boat, desperately waving his arms to disperse the thick fog. He bent down, his hands slapping against the icy surface of the lake as if searching for a hidden truth beneath the ripples.

Simon muttered that he was a strong swimmer and would just swim back to the shore to get the police.

Without waiting for a response, he threw his leg over the edge and plunged into the freezing water.

The group had watched him swim away with powerful, confident strokes. He never looked back. None of the passengers tried to stop him. In the back of their minds, a selfish thought had sprouted: with one less competitor, the prize money split would be even larger.

Their greedy thoughts did not last long.

A few minutes later, a strange piece of floating wood drifted into view from the deeper, darker parts of the lake. It bobbed conspicuously on the unnaturally calm surface.

As the scarecrow rowed the boat closer to the floating object, the dreadful reality came into sharp, horrifying focus.

It was not a piece of driftwood.

It was Simon's corpse.

There were no limbs. There was no head. It was just a hollowed-out, mutilated torso.

Thick, dark blood was constantly spreading out from the five jagged, severed stumps. The grotesque crimson fluid mixed with the black water, turning the surrounding lake into a sickening, dark red pool.

The scarecrow did not stop rowing. The boat glided forward, cutting straight through the bloody water. The suffocating, metallic smell of fresh blood hit their noses like a physical wall.

Then came the rest of him.

Simon's left arm floated past the port side. Then his right arm bumped against the hull. His left leg and right leg appeared sequentially in their line of sight, bobbing aimlessly in the bloody foam as the boat moved forward.

The final piece emerged right beside the boat. Simon's severed head broke the surface of the lake, accompanied by a wet stream of bloody bubbles.

His dead eyes were forced wide open, bulging from their sockets in unadulterated terror. His pale lips were locked in a rigid O shape. His facial muscles were twisted and contorted far beyond what a normal, living person could ever achieve.

Gideon had only spared it a single glance, but that was enough. The rational part of his brain instantly calculated that Simon must have experienced a level of extreme, unimaginable agony in his final seconds.

A man sitting near the bow couldn't hold it back anymore. He leaned over the side and vomited violently. The acidic stench of gastric juices mixed with the heavy scent of blood, breaking whatever denial the group still held onto. This was real. People were dying.

Now, standing on the dock, just the mere mention of Simon's name triggered a chain reaction. The wet, hacking sound of dry-heaving and vomiting rose from the crowd once again.

"Behind us is the lake, around us is the forest, besides the hotel in front of us, do we have any other choice?"

Gideon took another slow, deep breath, forcing his vocal cords to remain perfectly steady.

He was scared. His skin was crawling, and his stomach churned.

But whether it was the sight of the severed limbs floating on the lake or the lingering, metallic smell of blood clinging to his clothes, he maintained a rigid calmness that separated him from the weeping passengers.

His mind was fixated on one single thing: the invitation letter.

What kind of monstrous secret was the organizer hiding? What was the true purpose of this slaughter?

Gideon stepped off the dock and walked to the front of the group. The others, desperate for any semblance of leadership, quickly scrambled to follow closely behind his heels.

They approached a massive, golden iron gate that guarded the courtyard. Thick, sticky spider webs clung to the rusted bars. Gideon placed his hands against the cold metal and pushed hard. The hinges screamed in protest, but the gate swung open.

The seven survivors shuffled into the courtyard, stepping onto the overgrown cobblestone path.

The moment the last person crossed the threshold, the heavy iron gate slammed shut with a deafening "clang," vibrating against the stone pillars and shattering the quiet night.

A younger man in the group shrieked, sprinting back to the iron bars. He grabbed the metal and pushed with all his body weight, but the gate refused to budge even a fraction of an inch.

Outside the bars, the thick fog began to writhe and condense, turning into a solid white wall that completely swallowed the view of the dock and the lake.

It was too eerie. The atmosphere dripped with unnatural malice.

Seeking safety in numbers, the group huddled tightly together, their shoulders brushing as they slowly inched their way toward the grand wooden doors of the hotel.

Gideon stepped up the short flight of stone stairs and reached out his knuckles to knock.

He paused. The heavy wooden door was covered in intricate, swirling patterns. The carvings were densely packed, weaving together to form what looked like an ancient, grotesque totem.

Before his knuckles could strike the wood, the muffled sound of hurried, tapping footsteps echoed from the other side.

The group behind Gideon gasped and scrambled backward in pure panic, tumbling down the stone steps and leaving Gideon standing entirely alone on the porch.

The heavy door creaked loudly. A small, pale hand reached out from the darkness inside, struggling to pull the massive door inward.

Startled by the mundane sight, Gideon stepped forward and placed his palm against the wood, helping to quickly push the heavy door wide open.

The figure standing in the doorway was not the bloodthirsty monster their traumatized minds had expected.

A collective, shaky sigh of relief rippled through the people cowering at the bottom of the stairs.

"Why are you so late? Too slow!"

The person who opened the door was a little girl, looking no older than fifteen or sixteen. Her voice was bright, clear, and bubbled with cheerful laughter.

She wore a crisp, light blue plaid dress. Two neat brown braids rested delicately on her small shoulders, and a comically large bow was tied neatly at the back of her waist.

The little girl took a lively step forward over the threshold and grabbed Gideon's arm with both hands. She tugged him playfully, beaming a bright, innocent smile down at the terrified adults huddled at the bottom of the steps.

"Come in, what are you standing there for?" she chimed.

Gideon allowed himself to be pulled over the threshold and into the warm glow of the foyer.

The remaining six people stayed rooted to the cobblestones, exchanging uncertain glances, paralyzed by indecision.

The little girl let go of Gideon's arm. She planted her small hands firmly on her hips and pointed a tiny finger straight at the shivering crowd outside.

"If you don't want to come in, do you want to go back into the thick fog?"

She maintained the wide, cheerful smile on her lips, but her bright tone suddenly plummeted into a freezing, cruel deadpan. The malice bled into her dark eyes.

"I'll count to ten, and after ten seconds, I'll close this door. Then you'll all go back to that lake."

She tilted her head, her braids swinging.

"Starting the countdown, 1, 2..."

The mere mention of the lake was all the motivation they needed. The horrifying image of Simon's mutilated torso bobbing in the red water flashed in their minds.

Returning to the lake meant an agonizing, gruesome death.

Panic exploded. The six people scrambled up the stone steps, shoving and elbowing each other out of the way in a desperate stampede to cross the threshold and rush into the hotel before the door could swing shut.

The hotel lobby was overwhelmingly spacious. The decor screamed of late nineteenth-century luxury. A massive crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting fractured, dazzling light directly into their wide eyes.

Directly ahead, the mahogany reception desk was manned by two terrifyingly realistic mannequin doormen, dressed in crisp vintage uniforms. To the right sat an old-fashioned sliding elevator enclosed in a wrought-iron cage. Two grand, symmetrical wooden staircases flanked either side of the vast lobby, spiraling up into the shadows of the second floor.

To the left of the main hall sat a large, crackling fireplace. Three massive, worn leather sofas and a single plush recliner were arranged around the stone hearth in a cozy semi-circle.

The little girl skipped cheerfully across the lobby, hopped onto the plush recliner, and eagerly waved her hand, gesturing for the shivering group to gather around the fire.

As Gideon and the others cautiously approached the seating area, their footsteps slowed.

Four people were slumped deep into the cushions of the leather sofas, their bodies positioned as limply as wet mud.

Their faces were pale and completely devoid of emotion. Their vacant, glassy eyes were locked onto the dancing flames of the fireplace, their expressions thoroughly soulless. They did not blink. They did not flinch as the group approached.

No one dared to speak. A suffocating silence draped over the grand lobby once again. Even standing mere feet from the roaring fire, the ambient temperature felt freezing against their skin.

Gideon narrowed his eyes. He decided to break the tension before it crushed them.

"I say, where are we? And how did you get here? Did you also come through a fog on a boat?"

He fired off the three questions in one rapid breath, directing them at the four slumped figures.

The response was that same dreadful, heavy silence.

The people melting into the sofas did not twitch a single muscle. Not an eyelash fluttered.

Duncan Hayes, a towering, burly man with a thick, unkempt beard, cracked his knuckles. His patience had evaporated.

"Are you all mute?" Duncan's loud, booming voice echoed violently off the high ceilings of the empty lobby.

Seeing that the figures still refused to acknowledge his existence, Duncan stepped forward aggressively, his large hands balling into tight fists, ready to physically pull one of them up by the collar.

The very next second, a man who looked every bit the corporate elite, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit and seated quietly in a single chair in the corner, suddenly straightened his posture.

"Even if you have many questions, you have to complete the task first."

The elite man's voice was crisp, calm, and laced with absolute authority.

"When you finish the task in the room and return here alive, all your questions will naturally be answered."

The moment his words landed, the tension in the room spiked. Every survivor became hyper-alert, an intense sense of foreboding clawing its way up their throats.

"Room, what room?" Gideon demanded.

A sharp memory surfaced in Gideon's mind—a brief, cryptic phone call he had received right before he passed out in the meeting spot.

The elite man calmly raised his hand, pointing a single, perfectly manicured finger upward. Every head in the lobby swiveled, following his gaze to the dark corridor on the second floor.

"There's not much preparation time left." The elite man pulled back his suit sleeve, glancing at an expensive silver watch on his wrist. "In less than three minutes, the passage to the rooms will open, and you will enter the horror world through the rooms to complete the tasks assigned to you."

He dropped his arm, leaning forward slightly.

"After completing the tasks, the small boat will reappear to take you away."

Tessa Reed, a petite woman trembling behind a pair of thick, red-framed glasses, took a hesitant half-step forward.

"What if we don't complete the tasks?" Tessa asked, her voice squeaking with fear.

The elite man sneered as if hearing a ridiculous joke. His expression slowly turned icy as he stared her down.

"What do you think will happen? Of course, you'll die! You'll die very, very horribly!"