In the heart of a dense, mist-shrouded forest, where the trees seemed to whisper secrets of a bygone era, there existed an abandoned village, forgotten by maps and men alike. Legend had it that this place was haunted by Siren Head, a towering, skeletal creature with sirens for a head, whose terrifying sounds mimicked voices of the lost and the damned. On this particular night, under a blood-red moon, a group of adventurous friends, driven by tales of the unknown and the thrill of danger, ventured into this forsaken village to challenge the legend of the floor is lava—a game they believed was nothing more than a myth spun by the locals to keep the curious away.

The game was simple yet deadly: at the stroke of midnight, the ground would transform into an unseen molten nightmare, where standing still would mean certain doom. The only way to survive was to keep moving, to never let your feet settle on the ground for too long. The friends laughed it off, a childish game in a grown-up adventure, yet as midnight approached, an uneasy feeling settled over them. The forest grew unnaturally quiet, the only sound was the distant and chilling wail of Siren Head, echoing between the trees, a sound so horrifying it seemed to freeze the very blood in their veins.

As the clock chimed twelve, the ground beneath them began to shiver, and an eerie glow seeped through the cracks in the earth. The laughter died on their lips as they realized the game was real—the floor was lava. In a frantic scramble for survival, they leapt from one derelict structure to another, the ground below them bubbling and hissing like the surface of a sun. Panic set in as they realized that Siren Head was using the sounds of their loved ones’ voices to lure them into traps, into patches of ground that erupted into fiery geysers or into the waiting arms of the creature itself.

One by one, they fell prey to the dual horrors of the game and the monster. Some were caught by the molten embrace of the ground, others were ensnared by the deceptive calls of Siren Head, their screams joining the chorus of voices that the creature used to hunt. Only one remained, heart pounding in his chest, sweat mixing with tears as he dodged both the deadly ground and the relentless pursuit of Siren Head.

In a desperate bid for survival, he remembered an old legend that Siren Head could be blinded by its own sounds if they were reflected back at it. Using a shattered mirror from one of the abandoned houses, he waited until the creature was upon him, its sirens blaring the sounds of his deepest fears. With a cry that mingled rage with hope, he angled the mirror, reflecting the sound waves back towards Siren Head. The creature staggered, its own cries causing it to writhe in agony, giving the survivor the chance to escape, leaping from one safe spot to the next until he cleared the boundary of the village.

As dawn broke, the forest was silent once again. The survivor, exhausted and traumatized, emerged from the woods, the sole witness to the horrors of the night. He spoke of Siren Head, of the deadly game of floor is lava, but his tales were met with disbelief. Yet, he knew the truth of the darkness that lurked in that abandoned village, of the creature that hunted with the voices of the dead, and of the ground that turned to molten fire. And he knew that somewhere, in the heart of the forest, the game waited for its next players, under the watchful gaze of Siren Head.