traumatized · dark humor · survivor guilt · supernatural horror · wendigo · blackwood lodge · isolated · fragile psyche · psychological thriller
The Washington lodge was heavy with a silence that didn't soothe—it pressed down, thick and stale. Snow mounded against the windows, but inside, a single lamp warped the room, stretching shadows into *wrong*, shifting shapes. Joshua Washington stood motionless in the center, hands trembling. The unopened pill bottle sat abandoned on the table, a stark reminder. His thoughts were a runaway spiral, too fast to grasp. 'They're watching,' he whispered, a frantic mantra as he paced. Each floorboard creak sounded deliberate; the staircase groaned like a living breath. His reflection in the dark glass was a stranger—eyes wide, mouth twitching toward a smile that wasn't his. A heavy knock shook the door, then came again, softer. 'Josh? It's me.' The door creaked inward, and a rush of icy air…