Chương 204: Chapter 204
The Creek of Fulu was known for its quiet curse. Situated in a valley that the maps ignored, it whispered of a god that had no name in the language of men, a being older than the mountains that cut through the land. Those who sought it out rarely returned. Of the few who did, none were the same.
Tom Collins had heard the stories since he was young. The Creek was a place wrapped in rumors, whispered around fires and bar tables. Most dismissed it as superstition, a tale to keep children out of the woods. But Tom had never been much for superstition. When the opportunity came, he decided it was time to see for himself.
He had driven down a broken road for hours, each turn leading him deeper into the woods. No signs, no markers, just the thick brush pressing in from either side. The trees above him were sparse, their bare branches scraping against the gray sky. The air smelled of damp earth and decay. A forest untouched by time, forgotten by the world. It was the kind of place where the ground felt unstable, as if it might swallow you whole if you stood still long enough.
By the time he found the Creek, the day had long since given way to night. The water, slow-moving and dark, flowed through the rocky bed with a sound like a soft sigh. No birds called, no insects buzzed. It was as if the whole world had been quieted, muffled by the presence of something ancient. He stepped closer, the stones beneath his boots slick with moisture.
Tom crouched by the water's edge, peering into the blackness. The surface rippled unnaturally, not from the current but from something below. He could feel it, a pulse—just on the edge of his senses. It made the hairs on his neck stand up.
Something was watching him.
The stories had told him about Fulu—about the way the god could reach into your mind, twist it until you no longer knew who you were. That was supposed to be the curse. The ones who didn't die changed, became... something else. People said Fulu had no form. It only took what it needed: memories, thoughts, actions. The god didn't kill. It made you forget yourself, until you were nothing but a hollow echo of who you once were. That was the real horror.
He didn't believe it. Not yet, anyway. Tom's hand hovered just over the water, inches away from dipping his fingers into the stream, feeling the coolness slide over his skin. He held himself back.
For a moment, nothing happened. The silence stretched between them, almost mocking. But then—he felt it. A slow, cold pressure creeping into his thoughts. It didn't make sense. It was like hearing a voice that wasn't there, like seeing something from the corner of your eye but finding nothing when you turned your head. Fulu's presence, it seemed, was always just out of reach, slipping through your fingers when you tried to grasp it.
Tom stood up, wiping his hand against his jeans. His heart raced, but he ignored it. Nothing was happening. Nothing. It was just a creek. Just a god. Just a bunch of nonsense.
He turned to leave.
The ground beneath him shifted.
Tom's feet lost purchase, and he slipped down the slope toward the water. He tried to catch himself but only managed to send a shower of pebbles scattering. His hands hit the wet stones first, and then his shoulder slammed into the ground. Pain bloomed across his body, sharp and sudden.
The pressure in his head was stronger now.
He couldn't hear anything over the pounding in his skull, but he could feel it. Something... was coming. The creek's waters darkened as it twisted and churned violently, as if it had a life of its own. He scrambled to stand, but his legs wouldn't move right. His body didn't seem to respond.
And then he heard it—a laugh, soft at first, distant, as though it was coming from the deepest part of his mind. It was a strange, haunting sound, not quite human. It echoed around him, repeating the same words over and over.
You should never have come.
Tom shook his head. His vision blurred, the world tilting like a ship listing in a storm. The trees around him twisted, their bark darkening into something sickly and wet. The shadows stretched unnaturally long, like fingers reaching out to grab him.
He staggered backward, tripping over his own feet. He turned his head, desperate for something real, something solid to hold on to. But the ground seemed to roll beneath him. The air grew thick. It was harder to breathe. His hands shook as they pressed against the earth, his skin slick with sweat, the pressure in his skull unbearable now.
You shouldn't have come, it whispered again, louder, clearer this time.
Tom's breath came in ragged gasps. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his throat. The trees bent toward him, their branches reaching for him like twisted fingers. The laugh echoed again, louder this time, as if it were right next to him. His whole body trembled.
He needed to leave. He had to get out. But his legs wouldn't work, his body wouldn't listen. It was as if something was inside him, controlling him, making him stay, making him listen.
Tom's chest constricted, his vision dimming. He clawed at his neck, gasping for air, but the laugh only grew louder, more mocking. The words wrapped around him like a rope, tightening with every breath he took.
You'll never leave. Not whole.
The trees around him warped, bending and stretching in unnatural ways. The water of the creek surged up, as if alive, its surface now a roiling mass of darkness, churning and twisting in ways that defied logic. The ground beneath him seemed to pull away, shifting and breaking apart, leaving him standing on a thin ledge that hung over an abyss. The air smelled of rot, thick and suffocating.
And then... a figure emerged from the creek. It wasn't a person. It wasn't even human. It was just... wrong. Its form was a blur of shifting shapes, like something trying to solidify but unable to. Its body was thin, frail, its limbs too long, too bent. Its head, no, its face—it had no face. Just a smooth, empty surface where eyes, nose, and mouth should have been. It was like looking into a mirror that reflected nothing.
Tom tried to scream. Nothing came out. He opened his mouth, but it was as if the sound had been swallowed by the world around him.
The figure moved toward him, and Tom's legs finally gave way. He collapsed to the ground, his body limp, as if every part of him had been drained. The figure leaned down, its presence suffocating, consuming. He could feel its cold touch on his skin, but there was nothing. No sensation, just emptiness.
You will forget yourself, it whispered. But you will never escape.
And that was when Tom understood.
The Creek of Fulu didn't take lives. It took everything else. It took the mind, the memories, the soul. It twisted them, turned them inside out, until nothing of the person who had once been remained. And now, Tom could feel it. He was becoming part of it. Part of the god. The voices in his head weren't his anymore. The thoughts, the memories—they were becoming Fulu's.
He looked up, but there was nothing to see. No sky, no trees, no creek. Only darkness. Endless, suffocating darkness.
Tom Collins had gone to the Creek. And he would never leave it.
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