The Malice Remedy

The night descended with a sudden, predatory weight, the way it only does in the deep reaches of the mountains. Here, along the jagged spine of the range locals called the “Sleeping Dragons,” the darkness felt less like an absence of light and more like a physical presence—thick, ink-black, and suffocating.

The ancient forest that began where the hiking trail ended wasn't just a collection of trees. It was a breathing, watchful entity. Every shadow seemed to stretch toward our campfire, and every snap of a twig in the distance felt like a footstep. We were four friends huddled together, the flames our only shield against an encroaching wilderness that felt increasingly hostile. The air was a heavy cocktail of wood smoke, pine needles, and the sharp, metallic scent of the coming frost.

We were a tight-knit group: myself, Arthur; Isaac, lanky and restless; Claire, whose expressive eyes reflected the dancing flames; and Andrew, the quietest and most analytical of us all. We had been hiking these trails since childhood, but tonight, the “Sleeping Dragons” felt less like majestic landmarks and more like prehistoric beasts waiting for the right moment to roll over and crush us.

“Let’s raise the stakes,” Isaac said, breaking the silence. He tossed a dry branch into the fire, sending a geyser of sparks into the void. “A contest. The most terrifying story wins the last of the bourbon. Real fear, not that campfire kitsch.”

Claire laughed, though it sounded a bit thin. “I'm in. But if I win, you’re carrying my pack tomorrow.”

Andrew, sitting slightly back from the light, his glasses opaque with reflections of the fire, simply nodded. The tournament had begun.

Isaac went first. He spun a classic yarn about a witch in a forest clearing, a relic of the Brothers Grimm updated with gore and modern dread. It was good, but predictable. Claire followed with a psychological thriller about a phantom child in a suburban basement—a story that relied on the creeping realization of one’s own insignificance. We felt the prickle of goosebumps, the collective shiver that comes when the mind starts to play tricks.

Then, it was Andrew’s turn. He leaned forward, the shadows carving deep hollows into his face.

“My story isn't about witches or ghosts,” he began, his voice dropping into a low, rhythmic cadence. “It’s a confession. It’s about me.”

The atmosphere shifted instantly. This wasn't the Andrew we knew—the one who calculated logistics and studied maps. This Andrew had a razor-thin smile that didn't reach his eyes.

“I want to share something with you all,” he said, his tone as dry as a police report. “I am the one who killed Mr. Sterling. You remember the news? The 'Unsolved Butcher' of the North End? A respectable man, forty-nine years old, a restaurant owner. He lived in a house filled with expensive Persian rugs and green silk wallpaper.”

We froze. The detail was too specific, the delivery too cold for a mere fabrication.

“The police found a bloody mess in the bedroom,” Andrew continued, his voice devoid of emotion. “They called it a 'frenzied attack.' But it wasn't frenzy. It was precision. A single strike to start, then the artistic touches—the ears, the fingers. I told the lead detective he should look for a man with a perfect golf swing. The simpleton actually believed me. He thought it was a clue; I was just mocking him.”

He chuckled, a dry, rattling sound that made my skin crawl.

“But why?” Claire whispered, her voice trembling.

“Because the dark doesn't need a reason,” Andrew replied. “About a year ago, the dreams started. Not just nightmares, but invasions. I’d wake up drenched in sweat, feeling like something had been rewritten inside my head. I went to the woods to clear my mind—the Japanese call it 'forest bathing.' They say the trees heal you. They lied.”

His eyes seemed to glow with a dull, internal heat.

“I realized then that Evil isn't an abstract concept. It’s a parasite. It enters you like a worm and settles into the marrow. I started seeing it in the corners of my room—a pulsing, inky blot that grew every time I gave in to a dark thought. At first, it was small. A neighbour’s cat. I took garden shears to it just to see if the internal machinery of a living thing looked like mine. It didn't. It looked... simpler. More honest.”

We couldn't move. Andrew’s words were like a hypnotic venom.

“Then it grew. It stopped hiding in the shadows and started standing behind me. It whispered that I was just a vessel, a suit of skin for something much older. And tonight, here, under the shadow of the Dragons... the vessel is full.”

Andrew stood up slowly. Behind him, the shadows seemed to detach themselves from the trees. A massive, ink-black shape, pulsing like a cephalopod, rose from the darkness. It had no face, yet it was staring at us.

“I have a final lesson for you,” Andrew whispered, his voice now layered with a guttural, inhuman resonance. He reached into his pack and pulled out a long, thin butcher’s knife—not a camping tool, but a professional instrument of the trade.

He didn't point it at us. Instead, he drew the blade across his own forearm in one smooth, deep motion.

No blood came out.

Instead, a thick, oily black liquid oozed from the wound. It smelled of grave dirt and ancient rot. As it dripped onto the grass, the vegetation hissed and shrivelled, turning to ash.

“You see? This is the Malice Remedy,” he hissed. “The cure for the weakness of being human.”

From the tree line, they began to emerge. Dozens of figures, moving with the jerky, unnatural gait of marionettes on tangled strings. Their skin was the colour of slate, and their eyes were pits of smouldering charcoal. They weren't strangers; they were the husks of those who had come before us.

“There is a warning you should have heeded,” Andrew—or the thing wearing him—said, as the black ichor began to vaporize into a dark mist that surrounded us. “A warning written in the wind and the rustle of the leaves, one that every traveller ignores until it's too late.”

He leaned in close, his breath cold as a winter tomb.

“Never venture into the deep woods after the sun has bled out. Never speak to the strangers you meet in the clearing, and never, under any circumstance, listen to the silver-tongued monsters that wear the faces of your friends. For the forest does not want your company; it wants your silence.”

I felt something cold and viscous sliding under my skin. There was no pain, only a horrific sense of being overwritten. My memories of home, of my mother’s face, of my own name—they were being pushed out to make room for the Blot.

I looked at Isaac and Claire. Their eyes had already gone dark, filled with that same smouldering charcoal light. They weren't screaming. Their mouths were sewn shut by the darkness itself.

The fire gave one final, desperate flicker and died.

“My story is over,” the voice echoed in the total darkness, sounding now from everywhere and nowhere at once. “But yours... yours is just beginning. We have such a long walk ahead of us.”

In the silence of the Sleeping Dragons, the only sound left was the synchronized breathing of four things that used to be human, and the slow, heavy thud of footsteps moving deeper into the trees.