An aged floorboard groaned somewhere deep in the house. Thomas lay still in the bed but let his eyelids drift open. He knew he shouldn’t give in to paranoia, but it was hard at night when the branches scrabbled at the shingles like brittle fingernails and they wind rattled the doors as though demanding to be let inside.
A distorted shadow slid across the bedroom ceiling.
I had Random.org select a percentage, and it selected 32%.
The routine was the same each time; they set out to follow the disused trail. It led on for about fifteen minutes before the path started breaking apart and becoming confused by phantom trails. When they reached a patch where the road forked, they would choose one, but no matter which track they pursued, it soon vanished into the jumbled confusion of the woods.