Trick Or Retreat

The cabin smells of pine and cedar, wood groaning under heavy bootsteps. Three girls orbit a woman who teaches touch like it is a second language. Natasha feels left out from the first day, stranded on the porch while the others practice skin on skin. On day two the pattern repeats: she waits. Frustration burns hotter when the hot tub jets fail to calm her, only sending shivers back through her spine. She steps away, seeking anything that isn’t observation. What she finds keeps its grip. The shape moves between door frames—blank white sockets, fabric stretched tight over something long and lean. Every corridor she enters, the specter follows. By the time she reaches the bedroom she’s shaking, knees locked. Abigail senses a wedge she cannot name. Lola and Remy brush past her like conspirators—wet mouths, sly glances, oil-slick shoulders. She sends them outside while she puts Natasha on the hunt. Drawers yield their secret quick enough: two identical masks, crude eye holes carved with pocket knives, still damp with sweat. When the pair are confronted, Lola mumbles excuses about harmless fun. Abigail cuts through the noise. “If you wanted to be closer,” she says, slow, almost purring, “there are better ways than scaring the one you share a bed with.” The suggestion lingers, and the space between them shrinks in ways the masks never could.