I still remember the way the sunlight dappled the leaves that day, throwing golden patches onto the trail as I rode my bike through the woods. The air smelled of wet moss and summer heat, and the soft hum of the creek drifted through the trees. It was supposed to be a peaceful ride—a moment of solitude before heading back home.

Then I saw him.

He was there, half-submerged in the water near the culvert, motionless but watching me. His face was hidden by shadow, and his body seemed... off, though I couldn't put my finger on why. Still, there was something oddly reassuring about him.

He raised a hand—slowly, like he didn't want to startle me—and waved. His voice was soft when he spoke, carrying over the gentle burble of the creek.

"Hello."

"Hi," I called back hesitantly, my voice catching in my throat.

"You can come closer," he said. "I won't hurt you. I just want to talk."

His voice was soothing, like the sound of a lullaby, and it surprised me how quickly my nerves settled. Something about him made me feel safe. I got off my bike, letting it rest against the rail.

"How do you know my name?" I asked before realizing he'd never said it out loud.

But I knew he did.

"I just do," he replied, his tone friendly, like we were old friends catching up after years apart. "I know a lot about you. You like riding your bike, don't you?"

I nodded, feeling oddly flattered.

"You're so brave to come out here by yourself. But I was hoping..." He trailed off, his shadowy head tilting. "Maybe you'd like to explore something new. The culvert there—it's amazing. You'd love it. Perfect for someone like you."

I glanced at the dark tunnel where the creek vanished into the earth. The culvert was small, damp, and probably full of spiders. "I don't think so," I said, taking a step back.

His tone shifted, not angry but insistent. "It's safe, I promise. Just a little fun. A little adventure. I used to play there when I was your age."

The more he spoke, the more his voice burrowed into my head. I couldn't shake the sudden urge to obey him, to trust him. My feet shuffled forward despite my pounding heart.

"I don't know..." I muttered, gripping the bridge rail so hard my knuckles turned white.

"It's okay," he cooed. "I'll be with you the whole time."

I glanced up, but the man had moved. He was closer now, crouched on the bank just below the bridge. I hadn't seen him move, and yet there he was, his long fingers pressed into the mud. His face was still hidden in shadow, but his teeth—yellowed and too many—caught the light.

"You'll love it in there," he said. "It's where all the fun is."

My head throbbed. His words repeated in my mind, as if spoken in a dozen voices at once. I should go in the culvert. I should go in the culvert.

"No," I said, but it came out weak, a whisper swallowed by the hum of the forest.

The man smiled wider. He stepped into the culvert, his limbs folding unnaturally, his body bending and stretching to fit. I couldn't see his eyes, but I knew he was watching me, waiting.

"Come on," he said from the darkness.

I wanted to run. My brain screamed at me to grab my bike, to leave and never look back. But my legs moved on their own. I stepped toward the edge of the creek, toward the yawning black mouth of the culvert.

He started humming, a low, haunting melody that grew louder as I approached. I could see him crouched inside, his long arms stretched out to me, his claws gently scraping the concrete walls. Behind him, something glinted in the faint light—a pile of objects half-hidden in the shadows. Toys. Clothes. Shoes.

And bones.

I froze. The spell broke, and my lungs burned as I finally drew in a ragged breath. The man snarled, his smile warping into something monstrous as he lunged forward.

"You're supposed to go in!" he bellowed, his voice a roar that shook the earth beneath me.

I turned and ran, grabbing my bike and pedaling as fast as my legs could go. I didn't look back, not even when I heard him crawling out of the culvert, his limbs clicking and scraping over the stones. Not even when his voice, now a guttural growl, called my name over and over, echoing through the trees.

I didn't stop until I was home, until I'd locked the doors and pulled every curtain shut.

I never went back to that trail. I never rode my bike near the creek again.

But sometimes, when I close my eyes at night, I still hear his voice.

You should go in the culvert. You should go in the culvert. You should go in the culvert...