[Spoken word| Storytelling| Spooky Halloween sound effects| Zombie] The embers of the campfire had settled down to a pulsing, orange heartbeat, casting long, writhing shadows against the surrounding pine trees. Around the circle, the kids had stopped talking. The only sounds left were the distant hoot of an owl and the dry crackle of cooling wood. "Everyone thinks it's about the bite," Mark whispered, leaning in close so the firelight caught the sharp angles of his face. "Like in the movies. You get chomped, you turn green, you stumble around groaning for brains. Total bullshit." Sarah pulled her flannel tighter around her shoulders. "Then what is it, Mark?" "It’s an infection of the soul before it ever hits the meat," he replied, his voice flat and deadpan. "It starts with a fever that tastes like copper and ash. By day two, your skin starts feeling too tight, like it’s shrink-wrapping a dry corpse. But the worst part—the part they never tell you—is that you’re still in there." He paused, letting the silence stretch out like a plucked nerve. "Back in October of '24, down near the old logging trails behind Blackwood Ridge, my brother Leo and I got caught out after dark. A heavy, unnatural fog rolled in so fast it choked out the moonlight. Then came the noise. Not a monster roar, but a wet, dragging sound. Like heavy boots dragging through thick mud, mixed with the sound of tearing leather." A sudden gust of wind hissed through the pine needles above them, making Sarah jump. "We hid behind a fallen oak," Mark continued, his eyes wide and glassy. "Leo peeked over the log. I told him not to, but he did. The thing coming through the mist wasn’t some slow, shuffling movie zombie with missing limbs. It was fast. It was rigid. It was Mrs. Gable, the retired schoolteacher from down our road—except her jaw was unhinged, hanging by a wet, shredded strip of muscle and black tendon. Her eyes weren't milky white; they were bloodshot, wide, and boiling with a terrible, starving rage." Mark leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh rasp. "Before Leo could duck, Mrs. Gable moved. Not shuffle-jogged. She vaulted over that log with unnatural, bone-snapping speed. She hit him chest-first, driving the wind out of him with a sickening crunch. I froze. I couldn't breathe. I watched her teeth sink straight into the meat of his shoulder, tearing away a mouthful of flesh, and the worst part wasn't the blood—it was the sound. It was the wet, tearing squelch of muscle ripping apart, and the choking, gurgling screams Leo made as he choked on his own crimson vomit." The fire popped loudly, throwing a shower of bright sparks into the dark air. "Leo didn't just die," Mark whispered, his fingers twitching against his knee. "Within three minutes, his skin turned the color of spoiled milk. The terror in his eyes vanished, replaced by that same dead, ravenous hunger. And when he stood back up, he didn't look at me like a stranger. He looked at me like a fucking menu." Mark slowly stood up from his log, the firelight casting huge, distorted shadows against the bark behind him. "I managed to run," Mark said, his voice dropping an octave as a cold, wet breeze swept across the clearing. "I made it back to civilization. I locked every door. But every time I look in the mirror... my skin feels just a little too tight. My joints feel stiff. And right now..." He smiled, revealing teeth that looked just a little too sharp in the dying embers. "...I'm starving."
