Little Nightmares II – Chapter 1: The Hunter (Full Description - Approx. 3000 Words)

The first sound that breaks the silence is the hum of wind through the trees—an eerie whistle that sings of abandonment and cold. Dim, smoky light filters down through a canopy of leafless, skeletal branches, illuminating a forest that feels suspended in time. Among the dense underbrush and crooked trunks lies a strange television set, old and lifeless, like an artifact left behind by a forgotten world. The screen flickers to life for a moment, glitching with static, and then from its base, a small figure stumbles forward into the world. Barefoot and clad in a tattered paper bag mask, the boy—Mono—is alone.

The forest greets him not with welcome, but with quiet menace. Every step forward is a battle through roots and rot, over twisted logs and under crumbling bridges. The trees themselves seem to lean in, their black limbs like grasping hands. The air is thick with decay and tension. This is not a place meant for children—or for anyone.

As Mono traverses the woods, he finds signs that someone—or something—has been here before. Crude traps are scattered along the path: rusted bear traps snapped shut and filled with bones, tripwires hidden in the grass, cages dangling from branches. Some are sprung, others lie in wait like hungry mouths. These are not merely relics of survival—they are intentional, designed with a cruel intelligence.

The Hunter lives here.

His presence, at first, is felt rather than seen. His tools are embedded in the landscape: axes wedged into stumps, rope tied into nooses, snares baited with rotting meat. He is meticulous. Paranoid. Dangerous. The forest is his domain, and Mono is trespassing.

After navigating a series of deadly snares and barely escaping a collapsing rope bridge, Mono arrives at a dilapidated wooden cabin nestled deep within the woods. It looms in the distance like a rotten tooth, leaning on its side as if burdened by its own secrets. Crows circle overhead. The windows are dark. A low moan of wind whistles through the chimney. Every instinct screams that nothing good waits inside—but there is no other path.

Inside, the house is cold and dead, filled with the stink of oil and meat. Dust drifts lazily through the air, disturbed only by Mono’s careful footsteps. The kitchen is a grotesque gallery of old meat and broken plates. A fly buzzes around a bowl of congealed stew. Flies are everywhere—on the windowsills, around the meat grinder, under the table. Everything here feels forgotten, except the traps. They’re fresh.

Deeper in the house, Mono finds something unexpected: a girl, held captive in a locked room beneath the floorboards. Her yellow raincoat is missing—she is clothed in rags, her face pale and wary. She is Six, though Mono does not yet know her name. At first, she is frightened of him, defensive and quick-footed. But Mono is persistent. He helps her escape her confinement, and slowly, warily, she begins to trust him.

Together, the two small figures traverse the house, working as a team to push furniture, climb shelves, and unlock doors. Their bond is forged not through words, but through action—through survival. Mono helps her reach a doorknob too high to grasp. Six returns the favor by lifting him onto a ledge. It is a silent alliance, made of necessity and empathy.

But the Hunter is not far.

In the workroom at the back of the cabin, Mono and Six find the first undeniable evidence of his grotesque craft: taxidermied bodies of children and forest animals, posed grotesquely, their eyes stitched shut or gouged out. Masks made of flesh. A wall of tools, each one more brutal than the last. A shotgun hangs on the wall like a judge presiding over a courtroom of horrors.

And then they hear it—a heavy tread, a shuffling step, the groan of wood under massive boots. The Hunter is returning.

Panicked, the children flee into the crawlspaces beneath the house. The Hunter, massive and monstrous, lumbers into view. His face is covered with a burlap sack, two black eyes glaring through makeshift holes. He wears a stained apron and heavy gloves. In his hands, a shotgun—more an extension of his body than a weapon. He does not speak. He breathes in low, growling huffs. He is not merely hunting; he is enjoying the game.

What follows is a nerve-shattering chase through the underfloor passages and moonlit forest. The Hunter hunts with uncanny patience. When Mono and Six move, he fires, and each deafening blast echoes like thunder. The children must dodge behind rocks and trees, crawling through mud and puddles as the Hunter’s light scans across the terrain. When he pauses to reload, they run—but always he follows.

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