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"Hey, Uncle Pete! You know any ghost stories from around here?"

Uncle Pete laughed. "Wow, the sun goes down, and that's the first thing outta your mouth!"

"Well... I heard a really cool one, about like, all these monsters and ghosts and stuff in the woods..."

"Oh yeah, sure. I heard a lot of stories growing up around here, me and your dad..."

Trees faded in with all of their browns and greens, and their swaying in the breeze occurred to her in crystal clarity. The orange and yellow rays of the sun that penetrated the canopy shone as though sent from Heaven itself.

"Mary Ann's uncle's a huge wilderness guy. I guess the hunting's awesome around here, he's been coming up here several times a year since they were kids."

Sarah chattered on and on about Diamond Lake, how she'd spent so much time there as a child, how she'd been so happy whiling away her idyllic summers with her family.

Some whispered tales of a clan of serial killers, some talked of cannibals. It didn't matter that the police never found anything in the woods. It didn't matter that no evidence ever turned up. The rumors persisted, and grew stronger as the years passed.

But one thing was clear: people went into these woods and they never came out.

A snap from somewhere up in the trees. Branches creaking, shifting.

It was too dark to see what it was; but it was too loud, too sharp for it to have just been the breeze. Too big for it to have been an animal.

Dane froze.

The cabin was half rotted, battered by weather, neglect, and seemingly something worse. Larger sections of the walls and ceiling had fallen away, letting in the damp and the moonlight. Filthy cobwebs stretched from every corner of the large open room, and the beds that lined it were broken-down and moldy. Pale mushrooms sprouted on some.

He rubbed them against each other, sliding blade against prong in deliberate, angry jerks. Every time he did so, they seemed to grow sharper. Hungrier.

The front of her body had been sliced open and pulled back, fastened to the surrounding trees by multiple strands of fishing line, the hooks embedded in her ragged flesh.

"The cancer in your soul interests us a great deal. But there will be time for that. To all things, a season. Right now, we have to find the true you."

Janet started to cry. There was nothing left to do. The thing dangled in front of her, swaying quietly. The only sound it made was a ragged breathing, forced up from the shredded remains of what once had been lungs.

His chest felt like fire. And it was spreading. The pain was coursing through his entire body. His muscles ached, his bones hurt... it felt like his blood had been replaced with rubbing alcohol. And it was making him angry.

"Shhhh," they said as one, each holding a finger in front of its mouth, "or you'll be sorry."

A Splatterhouse anthology series by Rob Strangman and Mike Wasion

Arriving at West Mansion May 22nd, 2011!