Dinner was a quiet affair at the Winslow household.
Too quiet.
Oliver barely touched his food. He sat stiffly at the edge of the table while his parents talked around him—about quarterly reports, golf invites, and weekend plans—like the world hadn't shifted beneath their feet. Like Jeremy's disappearance wasn't real.
They didn't notice how pale he looked.
Or how often he glanced at the window, like something outside was watching him.
His phone buzzed.
The vibration was light, barely a whisper, but it hit him like a thunderclap.
He glanced down—expecting another blank message, another line of anonymous cruelty.
But instead, the sender's name stopped his heart.
From: Jeremy
He stared at the screen.
The name. The contact photo.
The same number Jeremy used. Before everything.
Before the woods.
Before the laughter turned into something else.
"I've been digging. I found out who it is."
Oliver's blood went cold.
Another message followed.
"I need to show you something. Come to the woods. Same place. Come alone."
He looked up.
His parents were still talking, still eating, still unaware.
He stood.
Grabbed his hoodie.
And left without a word.
The wind picked up as he walked.
The town was asleep, but Oliver was wide awake, his mind a tangle of questions and dread.
He moved quickly, cutting through alleyways and slipping behind the school grounds. The path into the woods looked the same—but felt different.
He hadn't been back here since that day.
The day they made Liam scream.
The day Jeremy laughed the loudest.
The day none of them stopped it.
Another buzz.
"Almost there. Keep walking. You'll see."
He didn't reply.
He just stepped into the trees.
The deeper he went, the quieter the world became.
No crickets. No rustling. Just dead leaves underfoot and the pounding of his own heart.
Every step echoed with guilt.
Then—
He saw something slumped against a tree.
Dark.
Still.
"Jeremy?" he called out.
No answer.
He stepped closer.
The flashlight from his phone lit the figure's face—and Oliver screamed.
Jeremy's body was grotesque.
His limbs twisted in unnatural ways. His face bruised and bloated. Deep, jagged cuts ran down his arms and across his torso.
His mouth hung open. His eyes were wide.
He looked like he'd been left to die slowly.
His phone rested beside him, screen cracked, still faintly glowing.
Oliver stumbled backward, bile rising in his throat.
He turned to run—but his foot snagged on a root and he crashed to the forest floor.
Pain shot up his side.
Then—his own phone lit up again.
And it played.
Laughter.
His laughter.
Jeremy's voice, shouting cruel things.
Adam's voice barking orders.
Then a chorus of student testimonies from Anti-Bullying Day:
"They posted my picture online."
"No one believed me."
"They said it was just a joke."
Layered voices. Broken voices.
Then Liam:
"I started wondering if disappearing would be easier."
Oliver sobbed, covering his ears. "Stop—please stop…"
He scrambled to his feet, dropped his phone, and bolted.
Then he saw it.
A figure.
Standing in the trees.
Just beyond the clearing.
Still.
Watching.
It didn't speak.
Didn't move.
But Oliver knew—it had seen everything.
And now… it had come for him.
At 2:17 a.m., a soft ping echoed in a surveillance van parked outside the regional telecom center.
"Jeremy Holt's phone just reactivated," said a technician, leaning closer to the screen.
An officer moved in behind her.
"Location?"
She zoomed in.
A blinking red dot appeared near the edge of the school district's wooded trail.
"The woods," she said.
"Dispatch units," the officer ordered.
At the police station, Jeremy's parents arrived within minutes of the call.
"You found him?" his mother asked, breathless. "His phone's on?"
"We've got officers heading there now," the sergeant said carefully. "Stay here. We'll keep you updated."
For the first time in two days, she allowed herself hope.
At 2:41 a.m., two patrol officers reached the clearing in the woods.
Their flashlights sliced through the darkness. Leaves rustled underfoot. The air was heavy, unmoving.
Then one of them stopped.
"Here," he said hoarsely.
Slumped against a tree was a motionless figure, head tilted downward.
They approached cautiously.
It was a boy. His school uniform was torn. Blood soaked through the fabric. One arm hung at an unnatural angle.
Jeremy Holt.
The officer knelt, pressing two fingers to the side of the boy's neck.
No pulse.
The other officer turned away and quietly radioed it in.
"Subject located. Deceased. Male juvenile. Confirmed ID."
Then they fell silent.
The woods were quiet again.
Still.
As if nothing had happened.
As if no one had died.
At the police station, Jeremy's parents had been waiting.
Hope had crept in earlier, against their better judgment—when the officer said Jeremy's phone was back online, when they learned the location was traceable.
"He must've dropped it," his mother had said, clinging to the thread of possibility. "Or it was out of charge. This is a good sign."
Now, they stood in a cold, quiet hallway as the sergeant approached them.
His face said everything before his voice could.
Jeremy's mother's expression cracked instantly. "Is he okay?" she asked, breath catching. "Did they find him?"
The sergeant lowered his head, removing his hat with a slow, practiced motion.
"I'm so sorry," he said quietly. "We found him. In the woods. Your son is—"
"No."
Her cry wasn't a word. It was a wound torn open. Her knees buckled and she collapsed into the chair behind her, gasping for breath, as if the air itself had turned against her.
Her hands trembled violently. Her whole body shook.
"No, no, no," she repeated, rocking slightly. "You said he was close. You said they were tracking him. You said—"
Jeremy's father remained standing for a long moment, completely still, staring at the officer as if his brain had simply refused the message.
He finally sat down, slow and mechanical, his elbows on his knees, face buried in his palms.
He didn't cry—not at first.
He just whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "I told him to toughen up. Told him not to let people push him around… I didn't think—I didn't think he'd disappear."
He looked up then, face red and damp.
"I didn't even see he was breaking."
The weight of those words collapsed him inward, like the truth had knocked the air out of his lungs.
Jeremy's mother sobbed beside him—loud, raw, uncontrolled grief that filled the room and reached through the walls. It echoed in a way that would stick with every officer in the building.
"He was just a boy," she whispered, clutching at her chest. "He still left the light on at night. He still said 'love you' before bed. He still needed me."
Her husband wrapped his arms around her, and they held each other, shaking.
Outside, the sun had not yet risen.
But a darker kind of night had already settled.
And it would stay with them forever.