There's a story about a shadow that follows kids into the woods after dusk—care to hear it?

In the summer before I turned eleven, my friends and I dared each other to stay in the old pine grove after nightfall. The air was thick, the trees like silent sentinels. One of us, Alex, was notorious for his bravado, and he swore he could see a shadow that followed us like a ghost. We laughed at first, but as the sky darkened, Alex began to mutter that the shadow grew bolder, matching our every step, sometimes looking just behind us when we turned. We told each other to stay calm, because fear was a tool—one that could be sharpened or dulled. We walked deeper, ignoring the wind that rattled the branches, and after a while, the shadow seemed to reach out with a translucent hand. At that point we turned around, only to see a narrow strip of dark—no one was there. Alex tried to speak, but the wind had taken his voice, and the grove seemed to breathe. We decided to leave, but the path twisted like a maze; every exit we tried seemed to loop back to the same clearing. Finally, I heard Alex's voice echoing from behind me, but it was his voice, twisted by the wind, calling my name with a mock whisper. We ran, and the shadow followed, trailing us back through the trees until it vanished into the trees' roots. When we emerged from the woods, Alex was gone. His jacket was still there, hanging on a low branch, its cuffs flapping in the breeze. He was nowhere to be found. Later, I found a note tucked in the jacket that read: "See you next time, your friends." The note was written in a hand that matched Alex's, but it felt more like a dare than a goodbye. I never saw Alex again, but every time I walk near that grove, I swear I hear a faint whisper, as if someone is telling me to come back, to keep the game going. The shadow remains, a silent reminder that some dreads are deeper than the forest and the night.

I'll keep the whisper echoing, but you know the shadow's a game I don't drop. When it comes back, I'll be there, ready for whatever comes next.

The night will be the playground, so I’ll bring my will, my eyes, and the silence that follows. No snack needed, just the echo of my presence.