Do Not Turn Around at Midnight

A narrow, winding country‑road cuts deep into the thick woodland on the town’s outer boundary. Ancient pine and oak trees crowd both sides of the track; gnarled branches interlock high overhead, weaving a dense shadow‑canopy that blots out nearly all moonlight. Local townsfolk have avoided this isolated stretch long after sunset for generations. Old‑word‑of‑mouth legend hands down one iron warning: if you set foot on this forest road past midnight and hear a soft voice call your name from directly behind you, under no circumstances should you turn your head.

This is far more than mere old‑superstitious folklore. Decades ago, one of InnerWorld’s invisible rifts seeped its corrupting power into every inch of this woodland path. A nameless curse clings to tree‑shadows, fallen leaves and dark hollows, lying dormant until some unwary wanderer steps within its reach after midnight. Survivors of other supernatural domains across town — those who had endured the Death‑Call Game, stepped onto the Red Platform, or opened the Reaper Club’s forbidden notebook — knew full well never to wander here once night had fully fallen. Yet most teenagers dismiss such grim caution as boring, over‑blown gossip invented only to frighten children.

Hana was exactly that kind of girl.

The clock was almost midnight when she stepped onto the dirt forest track. She had stayed far too late at her friend’s house on the town fringe, and the last public‑service bus back to her neighbourhood had departed hours before. This woodland trail was the only available shortcut home, cutting several kilometres off her journey. Her friend had begged her repeatedly not to take this haunted route, restating the ancient warning again and again, voice tight with unease. Hana only laughed it away, convinced all those terrible urban‑legends were wildly exaggerated. She grabbed her battery‑powered flashlight from the hall‑table, waved a casual goodbye, and walked straight into the tree‑lined darkness.

For the first stretch, the night remained comparatively peaceful. Her flashlight beam bounced unevenly across rough dirt, twigs and layers of crumpled dead leaves. Crickets chirped faintly in thick underbrush off‑track. The cool night‑air carried the sharp, earthy scent of damp soil and pine‑resin. Hana kept up a steady walking‑pace, her gaze locked firmly upon the path stretching ahead, humming soft fragments of a pop‑song quietly under her breath, trying to soothe the faint nervous flutter in her chest. She kept telling herself there was nothing genuinely terrifying waiting for her out here. All those InnerWorld‑related nightmares were only second‑hand stories, things that had happened to other people. She had never encountered one of these cursed domains face‑to‑face, and she stubbornly persuaded herself she never would.

Twenty minutes passed. The crickets’ chirping died away, all at once.

The whole forest fell into total, suffocating silence. The gentle rustle of wind brushing through treetops vanished completely. No owl hooted, no small‑animal scuffled in the bushes. The only audible sound left was the crunch‑crunch of Hana’s own boots trampling dry fallen foliage. She slowed her footsteps instinctively, her fingers tightening hard around the plastic body of her flashlight. A wisp of icy, ghost‑like breath drifted across the nape of her neck, sending a sharp chill racing down her spine.

Then a soft, gentle voice called her name, coming from a position immediately behind her back.

“Hana.”

The tone was quiet, almost tender‑sounding. It closely resembled the voice of someone she knew from daily life. Her heart gave a violent, startled jolt inside her rib‑cage. Her body’s primitive reflex screamed at her to spin instantly around, to see exactly who stood there in the darkness. But the old folk‑warning exploded inside her mind at that exact second: Do not turn around at midnight.

She froze mid‑stride, her eyes fixed rigidly forward along the dim, endless forest‑road. She forced every muscle in her neck to stay perfectly still. She would not turn.

“Hey, Hana. Why won’t you look back?” The voice spoke a second time, noticeably closer now, still retaining that deceptively sweet, soothing timbre. “I’ve waited such a very long time for you to finally notice me. I only want to say a simple hello.”

Hana swallowed hard against the dry lump in her throat. She kept her stare glued straight ahead, aiming her flashlight‑beam down the empty path in front of her. Nothing abnormal came into view, merely endless ranks of shadow‑swallowed tree‑trunks and tangled undergrowth. Yet she could distinctly sense a solid presence standing mere inches behind her shoulders, so near she could almost brush its clothing with her own back. Dread flooded her whole body. She dared not break into blind, frantic running; panic could easily make her twist her head over her shoulder on impulse, sealing her fate in one careless instant.

She had learned enough about InnerWorld’s rules‑based domains from town rumours. Every cursed space possessed one non‑negotiable forbidden action, one boundary you must never cross. For this haunted woodland road, that forbidden act was turning your head to look behind you.

“I have no need to lay eyes on you,” Hana answered. Her voice shook visibly, yet she strove to keep it steady and firm. “I know the rule of this road. I will not turn around.”

A low, quiet chuckle drifted out from the darkness directly behind her. That sound crawled along every nerve, bringing waves of icy shivers across her skin. “Rules are such tedious, confining things. Every single traveller walking this path hears my call. Some pretend they cannot hear my voice at all. Some break into desperate flight. Almost every last one of them ends up turning their head anyway, just for one fleeting, curious glance. Human‑curiosity often weighs heavier than raw fear.”

The voice began shifting, morphing continuously. It cycled through voices of people familiar to Hana: her old classmate, her mother, her late grandfather, each tone reproduced with eerie, unsettling accuracy. It deployed every memory‑bound affection she held, trying to trick her into spinning around. “Hana, it’s me. Please just turn for a moment. I miss talking with you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. The psychological pressure was almost unbearable. Part of her ached to obey, to turn and see a beloved family‑member once more. But she clamped down hard on that impulse. If she yielded to temptation, she would become trapped forever within this InnerWorld fragment, another silent prisoner bound to the forest‑road.

She took slow, careful steps forward, never speeding up to a run, never tilting her neck even a fraction backward. The unseen figure followed closely at her heels, matching every pace she took. The flashlight in her hand flickered intermittently; its light dimmed as supernatural cold drained power away from the bat