SHORT HORROR STORY
The Red Temple
The humid East Coast air clung to Ethan like a second skin as he hacked his way through the undergrowth. The map, snagged from a cryptic online forum, promised a hidden waterfall, a local legend whispered on the “dark web.” Ethan, ever the adventurer, rallied his four friends — Sarah, the level-headed one; Liam, the joker; Maya, the photographer; and Noah, the techie — for a weekend expedition to The Devil’s Throat.
The beach, their starting point, was everything the name promised — desolate, the waves churning with a restless energy. On the other side, an impenetrable wall of forest loomed, an unsettling quiet emanating from its depths. The map, crudely drawn on a coffee-stained napkin, led them on a winding path, sunlight barely filtering through the dense canopy.
Hours melted into one another. Laughter and chatter gradually gave way to tired silence. Ethan, always at the front, stumbled upon a clearing. A towering structure, unlike anything he’d ever seen, dominated the space. Brick, painted a faded crimson that seemed to bleed into the surrounding shadows, formed the building. No windows pierced the walls, only a large, ornately carved wooden door, ajar.
“Woah, check this out!” Ethan exclaimed, drawing the others’ attention. Sarah frowned. “Doesn’t look safe. Maybe a local landmark?”
Liam, ever the daredevil, was already pushing the door open. “Probably some abandoned lookout tower.” The inside was pitch black. Liam fumbled with his phone flashlight, the beam revealing a cavernous hall, devoid of furniture or decoration.
“Looks like a dead end,” Maya muttered, snapping a few photos with her camera. Ethan, drawn by a strange pull, lingered near the entrance. As the others ventured deeper, momentarily distracted by a crumbling staircase, he didn’t notice the door creak shut behind him.
Panic clawed at his throat as the darkness became oppressive. He fumbled for his phone, the screen dying within seconds. No signal. He called out, his voice a strangled whisper swallowed by the suffocating silence. Desperately, he ran his hands across the wall, searching for an exit. There were no windows, no doors, just a continuous, cold brick surface.
His friends were gone. The realization hit him like a physical blow. How could they not have noticed? A cold sweat slicked his skin. Had they even been there at all? The thought was terrifying, a worm of doubt gnawing at his sanity.
Hours stretched into what felt like an eternity. The silence was punctuated only by the frantic pounding of his own heart. The air grew heavy, thick with the smell of damp earth and something else, something ancient and unsettling.
Ethan slumped against the wall, defeated. A faint sound reached his ears, a rhythmic chanting like a dirge. It grew louder, closer, emanating from the depths of the temple. He squeezed his eyes shut, a primal scream trapped in his throat. As the chanting crescendoed, he felt an icy hand grip his shoulder. He screamed then, a silent scream lost in the suffocating darkness.
The next morning, Sarah, Liam, Maya, and Noah walked out of The Devil’s Throat, tired but exhilarated. No mention was made of Ethan. The memory of him, like the Red Temple itself, seemed to have vanished without a trace.
