"The Fire Died to Embers":
That summer of 1973 was the kind of heat that clung to your skin and made the pavement shimmer in the sun. We were just a bunch of restless kids from Schenectady, barely out of high school, most of us grinding away at factory jobs or working counters in dim diners that smelled like grease and burnt coffee. Life felt like a loop—wake up, work, eat, sleep, repeat. So when Phil Domblewski suggested we take a weekend trip to the Adirondack Mountains near Wells, New York, it felt like salvation. Just three days in the woods, away from noise and fumes and time clocks. There was no real agenda: set up camp, maybe fish in the Sacandaga River, drink a few beers, roast marshmallows, tell stories by the fire. None of us expected anything more than mosquito bites and maybe a hangover. What we got instead still wakes me up some nights, sweaty and shaking.
It was early on the morning of July 28th when we crammed into Phil’s rusty station wagon, its cracked leather seats hot even that early. The engine coughed to life after a few tries, and we hit the road with a trunk full of gear and a cooler that David had packed with hot dogs, soda, and a bottle of cheap whiskey he’d borrowed from his dad’s cabinet. Carol Ann sat in the back beside me, fanning herself with a folded-up road map and already complaining about the heat. She was sharp-tongued but sweet underneath it all, loyal in a way that mattered more than anyone gave her credit for. Phil, ever the loudest voice in the group, cranked the radio and drummed on the steering wheel as we rolled north into the wilderness.
By mid-afternoon, we reached the outskirts of Wells. The sun hung high, baking the tops of the trees until the whole forest smelled like warm pine and fresh sap. We drove down a barely-there dirt road that Phil insisted he’d remembered from a trip with his uncle. It ended at a secluded clearing—flat, dry, and ringed with towering pines that muffled the breeze. You couldn’t hear the road from there. No hum of engines, no voices. Just the faint burble of the Sacandaga River in the distance and the steady drone of crickets. “This is it,” Phil said, grinning as he flung open the driver’s door and stepped out like he’d discovered new land. “Paradise.”
“Paradise with bugs,” Carol Ann muttered, slapping at a mosquito that had found her neck. She still smiled though, and we all laughed.
David unloaded the cooler without a word, his dark hair already damp with sweat. “Who’s cooking tonight?” he asked, holding up a plastic-wrapped package of hot dogs like it was sacred cargo.
“Nick’s on fire duty,” Phil said, pointing at me. “Don’t burn the whole damn forest down, man.”
I gave him a mock salute and wandered into the trees with a garbage bag and a hatchet, collecting kindling and firewood. It felt good out there—quiet and free in a way you can only understand when you’ve been boxed in by city blocks for too long. By the time the sun dipped below the tree line, we had a fire going strong. The crackle and pop of the flames was hypnotic, casting flickering shadows on our faces as we sat in a half-circle on the old logs Phil had dragged over.
We passed around beers, told dumb stories from work, and roasted hot dogs until they split and hissed over the fire. Carol Ann was in the middle of some long-winded joke about her boss and a broken cash register when Phil cut in.
“Tomorrow,” he said, holding his beer up like a toast, “we hike to that waterfall I told you about. It’s a couple miles upstream, not too far.”
“You said this was gonna be a lazy weekend,” I replied, stifling a yawn. “Can’t we just sleep in?”
“Lazy doesn’t mean boring,” he shot back, grinning. “We’ll take our time.”
Carol Ann chucked a pinecone at me. “You’ll be the last one up, I guarantee it. I’ll be waiting with coffee and judgment.”
We crawled into our tents around midnight. The fire burned low, glowing embers like dying stars in the dark. Our tents were pitched close together—Phil and David in one, Carol Ann and me in the other. I could hear David snoring almost as soon as his head hit the sleeping bag. The forest outside was still, save for the rhythmic chirp of crickets and the gentle rustle of leaves. Lying there, I felt safe. We were miles from anything, unreachable and invisible. That comfort didn’t last.
Morning came slowly on July 29. The air was cooler than expected, the kind of crisp that made the bacon sizzle louder in the pan over the fire. Phil was already sketching in his notebook, pencil scratching away at a page covered in trees and river rocks. He fancied himself an artist, and to be honest, he wasn’t half bad. Carol Ann sat beside me, braiding her hair into two long plaits, humming something tuneless. David sat by the river, casting out a fishing line we hadn’t even baited yet, just for the feel of it.
“Think we’ll catch anything?” I asked, crouching beside him and tying on a lure.
“If not, I’m raiding Phil’s granola stash,” he said with a smirk.
Around noon, we heard the crunch of tires on gravel. That stopped everything. We all froze for a second, heads turning. No one should’ve been out there—our camp was a solid mile off any marked road. A small orange Volkswagen hatchback rolled into the clearing, kicking up dust. The paint was faded and rust crept up the bumper, but the car itself looked like it ran better than Phil’s wagon. A man stepped out—tall, too thin, with a mop of greasy brown hair and eyes that didn’t blink enough. He had a rifle slung across his shoulder and a half-smile that felt all wrong.
“Hey there,” he called, sauntering toward us like we’d been expecting him. “Nice setup you got.”
Phil stood, instinctively placing himself between the man and Carol Ann. “Thanks, man. You campin’ nearby?”
The guy nodded slowly, his gaze flicking over each of us like he was taking inventory. “Just passing through. Name’s Bob.”
He didn’t offer a last name. He didn’t ask ours either. There was something in his tone—friendly, too friendly, like syrup poured over something spoiled. Carol Ann tensed beside me. I saw the way her eyes narrowed and her shoulders pulled in.
“Mind if I sit a bit?” Bob asked, already walking toward the fire. He didn’t wait for an answer. Just dropped onto a log like he belonged there. The rifle lay across his knees, and even though he didn’t point it at us, it felt like he might at any moment.
Phil tried to keep things normal. “You want a drink or something?”
“Nah,” Bob said, smiling at the flames. “Just figured I’d see what kind of folks are out here.”
We made small talk. Or tried to. He asked questions—too many of them. Where were we from? How long were we staying? Did anyone else know we were out there? His smile never wavered, but his eyes were always moving, scanning. After maybe ten minutes, he stood up fast, like someone hit a switch inside him.
“Alright,” he said, his voice cold now. “Here’s the deal. You’re gonna do exactly what I say.”
He raised the rifle, and the mood dropped like a stone in water. Carol Ann gasped. David didn’t move. Phil stepped forward slowly, palms out.
“Take it easy,” he said. “Nobody wants trouble.”
“Shut up,” Bob snapped. “All of you—over by that tree.”
He forced us to stand in a row beside a thick oak at the clearing’s edge. One by one, he tied us to the trunk using rope from his backpack. His hands were quick, practiced. He smelled like old sweat and tobacco. Carol Ann was trembling, tears streaking her cheeks. I saw her mouth forming silent prayers.
“You’re gonna stay quiet,” Bob said, stepping back to inspect his work. “No screaming. No running.”
“Why?” David asked, barely above a whisper. “Why are you doing this?”
Bob just laughed. A horrible, high-pitched sound that sounded more like a bark than anything human. “Because I can.”
He turned to Phil. “You,” he said, pulling a long hunting knife from his belt. “You talk too much.”
Before we could react, he lunged. The knife plunged into Phil’s chest with a sickening sound. Phil screamed—a raw, gurgling sound that tore through the clearing. Blood sprayed across the bark of the tree. He slumped forward, gasping for breath, then went still.
“Phil!” I screamed, yanking at the ropes so hard my wrists bled. Carol Ann sobbed, begging. David shouted, voice cracking.
Bob wiped the blade on his jeans like he’d just cleaned a fish. “Next one who talks gets worse.”
He turned his back and began rifling through our tents, tossing gear into a pile by the fire. I thought that was it—that he was going to kill us all, one by one.
But then, David leaned close and whispered, “My ropes are loose.”
I didn’t respond, just barely nodded. He worked silently, carefully. Bob was still distracted, muttering to himself. David freed his wrists, then mine. I reached over and untied Carol Ann, who could barely breathe through her sobs.
I didn’t know what we were going to do. All I knew was we had to run.
“Run,” I whispered. And we did.
Bob shouted behind us. A shot rang out, the crack of the rifle deafening, but the bullet missed. We ran harder, crashing through branches, slipping on pine needles. Carol Ann fell once—David caught her. We didn’t stop. Not until the trees were thicker, the shadows deeper, and we couldn’t hear him anymore.
We found shelter under a fallen log, pressing ourselves into the earth, silent and shaking. Carol Ann clutched my hand, her breath hitching with every sound.
“What about Phil?” she whispered.
I swallowed hard, the image of Phil’s bloodied chest burned into my eyes. “He’s gone.”
We stayed there until the sky turned gray and the birds started singing again. Eventually, we found a dirt road. A trucker picked us up and drove us straight to the ranger station. We told them everything—about the orange Volkswagen, the rifle, the knife, the name “Bob.”
They took us seriously. Later we learned his full name—Robert Garrow. He’d already killed before. He would’ve killed again.
They hunted him for twelve days. The biggest manhunt New York had ever seen. On August 9, they caught him near Mineville. A cop shot him in the leg, and he finally surrendered.
We sat in court the next year, staring at the man who had taken Phil from us. He never looked ashamed. Never said a word. Just stared and smirked like it was all a game. He was convicted and sent away for life. I heard he was killed during an escape attempt in ‘78. Part of me felt relief. But it didn’t bring Phil back.
I never went back to the Adirondacks. Never will. Some places you don’t return to. Not because of ghosts—but because of the memories that live in the dirt, in the trees, in the silence. Some fear never fades. It just waits, quiet and patient, like the forest that summer.
"Eyes in the Pines":
Last summer, my friends Sarah, Mike, and I decided to go camping in the Angeles National Forest. We were craving a break from the endless noise and smog of the city—a chance to disconnect, just the three of us, surrounded by tall trees, crisp air, and the quiet hush of wilderness. It was supposed to be a carefree weekend, nothing fancy: two tents, some snacks, and enough firewood to last a couple of nights. We picked a spot near a quiet creek, about a mile off the main trailhead. It felt secluded but not completely remote, just enough to feel like we’d stepped out of our world and into something quieter, older.
The forest was stunning—pine needles thick on the ground, the trunks of towering trees casting cool shadows as the sunlight filtered through in golden beams. The air was fresh in a way you forget exists when you’ve been breathing city fumes for too long. That first night, we sat around the fire as the sky dimmed into a soft navy and the stars poked through. Sarah, always the goofball, was in rare form. “Why don’t bears wear shoes?” she asked, waggling her eyebrows. “Because they have bear feet!” Mike groaned and chucked a pine cone at her, missing by a foot. I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my marshmallow into the fire. It was one of those perfect moments—when you feel safe, surrounded by friends, your worries drowned out by the crackling of the fire and the hum of cicadas in the trees.
The next morning, after a quick breakfast of granola bars and lukewarm instant coffee, we decided to explore. A narrow trail snaked through the pines, the earth soft under our boots. The further we walked, the quieter it became, the birdsong thinning as if the forest was holding its breath. We weren’t really looking for anything, just wandering, enjoying the escape. About an hour in, Mike suddenly slowed and pointed toward a cluster of dense brush just off the path. “Look at that,” he said.
We stepped closer, pushing aside branches. Behind the foliage was a small, abandoned campsite. At first glance, it looked ordinary—just a tent, a few scattered belongings. But then we noticed the details: the tent flap was wide open, one of the sleeping bags was half out of the tent and damp with morning dew, the other still rolled up like it had never been used. A backpack lay on its side, its contents spilled out in a careless sprawl—shirts, socks, a crumpled energy bar wrapper. The fire pit nearby had cold, wet ashes, as if someone had poured water on it quickly and left in a rush.
“This is weird,” Sarah said, voice hushed. She crouched near the tent, peering inside. “It looks like they just walked away mid-trip.”
“Maybe they’re nearby,” I offered, though I wasn’t convinced. Something about the place felt... off. Abandoned but not empty, like we were being watched. I took a few steps around the site and froze when I spotted a wallet half-buried near a log. I opened it slowly. Inside was an ID: David Thompson, 32, Pasadena. There was also a cracked flashlight and a creased topographic map with a red circle marked around a ridge about a mile farther up.
Mike looked over my shoulder. “That can’t be good.”
“Could be nothing,” I said automatically, but my gut was already twisting. We debated heading back, but something about the site—the rushed departure, the circled map, the quiet—made us uneasy enough to check it out. “Just a quick look,” Mike said, trying to sound braver than he looked. “If someone’s hurt out there…”
We followed what looked like a faint trail—a few broken branches, some scuffed dirt—toward the ridge. The deeper we went, the quieter the forest became. No birdsong, no breeze, just the dull thump of our boots and the occasional snap of twigs. I began to notice tracks—footprints, boots, pressed deep into the mud, spaced unevenly like someone had been running.
“This is giving me serious horror movie vibes,” Sarah muttered, her hand gripping my arm tightly.
“Let’s just get to that ridge and see if there’s anything,” Mike said. His voice was tight. Nervous. We all were. I could feel it in my chest, like the forest itself was pressing in.
Then we heard it—a low growl, distant but distinct. It wasn’t a normal forest sound. It was deep and guttural, vibrating through the ground more than the air. We froze, instinct taking over.
“What was that?” I whispered.
“Probably just an animal,” Mike said, though his eyes were scanning the trees with too much urgency. Sarah shook her head, her grip tightening. “No. That… that didn’t sound like a coyote.”
We kept going, slower now, hearts pounding. Every rustle, every shift of light made us jump. The trail eventually led us to the edge of a steep incline, where the ground looked disturbed—dirt kicked up, plants crushed. A slide mark trailed down to a boulder halfway down the slope. Then we heard it—a voice, faint and hoarse: “Help… please…”
Without thinking, we scrambled down, trying not to fall. At the bottom, half-hidden behind the rock, was a man—dirty, scraped up, a long gash on his forehead, and his right leg twisted at an unnatural angle. His eyes were bloodshot and wide, darting from us to the forest.
“You’re okay,” I said, kneeling beside him. “We’re here. We’ll get help.”
His hand shot out, clutching my wrist with surprising strength. “Don’t let it get me,” he rasped. “It was watching. All night. Glowing eyes. Fast. Too fast. Not right…”
Sarah paled. “What’s he talking about?”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling a chill run through me despite the warm air. “David, you’re David Thompson, right?”
He nodded shakily. “I was camping… alone. Heard something… growling. Thought it was a bear. But it wasn’t. I ran, slipped. It was behind me the whole time. Big. I only saw the eyes.”
“Try not to move,” Mike said. “We’ve got a satellite phone.”
He pulled it out and dialed the ranger station, relaying our coordinates as best he could. “They’re sending a team,” he said, sliding the phone back into his pack. “Could be an hour.”
Sarah wrapped David in her jacket, trying to keep him calm. I stayed beside him, asking questions to keep him talking. His responses came in fragments—talk of long limbs, something that moved between trees without sound, eyes that reflected light like an animal’s but didn’t blink. His fear was raw, real. Not someone spooked by a raccoon. This was the fear of someone who had seen something they didn’t understand.
Mike and I climbed back up to mark the trail with bright orange tape. The whole time, I felt eyes on us, hidden just beyond the trees. The feeling wouldn’t leave. Not paranoia—something more primal. Instinctual.
David calmed a little as the minutes dragged on. “I thought I was gonna die,” he said quietly. “I’ve been out here since last night. Couldn’t move. I kept hearing it circle me. Never came closer. Just… watched.”
“You’re safe now,” Sarah said. But even she kept glancing over her shoulder.
Finally, we heard voices through the trees. Two rangers, one named Tom, appeared with a stretcher. They moved quickly, checking David’s injuries and getting him stabilized.
“You did good,” Tom told us. “He’s got a bad break, but he’ll live.”
I hesitated, then asked, “Did he say anything to you? About… something watching him?”
Tom gave a tired look. “Yeah. Said he saw glowing eyes. Happens more often than you’d think. Panic, isolation, your brain starts filling in the blanks. Could’ve been a bear, maybe even a cougar. At night, everything looks bigger. Scarier.”
“But he said it wasn’t natural,” Sarah said.
“People say a lot of things when they’re scared,” Tom replied. “But I’ll tell you this—there’s no creature out here that can’t be explained. Not really.”
Still, he didn’t sound as confident as I hoped.
We hiked out behind the rangers, exhausted. At camp, none of us said much. We packed up in silence. Even Mike, usually the last to abandon a trip, rolled up his gear quickly, eyes on the darkening woods.
“That was too freaky,” he said, tossing his bag into the car.
“Yeah,” Sarah agreed. “I think I’m good on camping for a while.”
I didn’t say much on the drive home. I just kept thinking about the way David’s eyes scanned the forest, like whatever he’d seen might still be out there. Maybe it was just an animal. Maybe the darkness, the fear, and a twisted ankle turned shadows into monsters. Maybe.
But as the road wound away from the trees and back toward the concrete sprawl of the city, I caught one last glimpse of the forest in the rearview mirror. The trees stood still, silent, as if nothing had happened. As if they hadn’t just swallowed a man whole and spit him back out, broken and terrified.
I don’t know if we’ll ever camp again. But if we do, I’ll never forget how that forest felt. Alive. Watching. And full of secrets we were never meant to see.
"Whispering Woods":
Last summer, my friends Jamie, Sam, Taylor, and I decided to go camping in Whispering Woods, a dense, brooding forest a few hours from our small town. The place had a reputation—known for its towering old-growth trees, nearly soundless trails, and a kind of hush that felt heavier than silence. It was supposed to be the perfect spot for a weekend getaway. We were looking forward to a break from our routines: no phones, no deadlines, just firelight, laughter, and whatever peace the forest could give us. But what we found out there turned our trip into something we’d all come to wish we could forget.
We arrived around noon, our car rumbling up the gravel road until it dead-ended at a narrow pull-off swallowed by trees. The canopy was thick, the kind of green that seems almost black where the sun fails to touch. The air was cool for summer, with the earthy scent of moss, pine needles, and distant water threading through everything. Each step on the forest floor made a soft crunch, like stepping on old bones.
After some searching, we found a clearing near a narrow stream. It was a little too quiet, but it looked like it had been used before—flattened grass, a ring of stones that once served as a fire pit. We unpacked and set up our tents in a loose semicircle, facing the water. Jamie, always trying to lighten the mood, tossed a pinecone at Sam and grinned.
“Think we’ll see Bigfoot out here?” he joked.
Sam caught the pinecone midair and rolled her eyes. “Only if he’s got your bad aim and fashion sense.”
Taylor, hammering down the last corner of her tent, smirked but didn’t look up. “Let’s just hope we don’t get eaten alive by mosquitoes before Bigfoot shows up.”
As the sun dipped below the treetops, we lit a fire and sat close. The flames cast dancing shadows on the trees behind us, and the occasional crack of twigs or rustling leaves snapped our attention toward the dark. But it always turned out to be nothing—just wind or animals, we told ourselves. We roasted marshmallows, told stupid jokes, and tried to ignore the way the woods seemed to breathe around us. But when we zipped up our tents that night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something out there was watching—silent, patient, waiting.
The next morning, after a breakfast of granola bars and instant coffee, we decided to explore deeper into the forest. The air was cooler under the trees, and the light filtered through the leaves in shards, casting moving patterns on the ground. The deeper we went, the quieter it got. Not peaceful—hushed, like the woods were holding their breath.
We were maybe a mile in when Taylor suddenly stopped, her arm shooting out to block me. “Guys,” she said, voice low. “Look at this.”
In a clearing, half-concealed by the overgrowth, was what looked like the remains of an old campsite. A tent—weather-beaten and sagging—sat crumpled in the dirt. The fabric was torn in long, unnatural slashes, like claws had ripped through it. Scattered around were rusted cooking pots, a shattered lantern, and a backpack so moldy it was barely holding together. The fire pit had collapsed in on itself, filled with old ash and broken glass.
“Who the hell just leaves their stuff like this?” Sam asked, poking at an empty can with her boot.
“Maybe they got spooked by a bear,” Jamie offered, but there wasn’t any conviction in his voice.
Something about it didn’t sit right. I crouched down near the base of a tree where something stuck out from beneath the leaves. I brushed aside the debris and unearthed a small, water-stained notebook. Its cover was cracked and faded, but a name was scrawled across the front in ink that had barely held on through the years: Ethan.
“Guys…” I held it up, heart thudding. “This is someone’s journal.”
They gathered around as I flipped open the front page. The pages inside were warped and yellow, the handwriting sharp and anxious, getting worse with each entry. The first date was from June 12, 2015.
Set up camp today. The woods are quiet, too quiet. I swear I keep hearing noises at night. Twigs snapping. Like footsteps.
The entries grew darker over the course of the week. Ethan wrote about finding strange symbols etched into trees near his site, about soft murmurs at night that stopped when he turned his flashlight on. He mentioned things being moved while he slept—his boots soaked and left by the stream, his food scattered, his tent unzipped though he swore he locked it. And then there was the final entry, dated a week later.
I think he’s coming for me.
We stood there for a long time, silent. The woods around us seemed to listen. Even the birds had gone quiet.
“Who the hell is he?” Taylor whispered.
Sam took a step back, wrapping her arms around herself. “This feels wrong. Maybe we should leave this alone. It’s not our story.”
But Jamie was already rifling through the back of the journal. “There’s a map,” he said, pulling out a folded piece of paper. It was hand-drawn, shaky, with landmarks we recognized—our stream, the clearing—and a faint trail leading deeper into the woods. At the end of it was a name scratched in thick, uneven letters: The Hermit’s Den.
My stomach dropped. The word hermit shouldn’t have felt so heavy, but it did. “We should check it out,” I said before I could stop myself.
“You want to follow the creepy map from the creepy journal written by the missing guy?” Taylor asked, incredulous.
“We don’t have to go inside. Just look. Maybe it’ll explain what happened.”
“Or maybe we end up like Ethan,” Sam muttered, but in the end, they all came with me.
We set out early the next day, following the faint trail. The map was crude, and parts of it didn’t make sense. It led us through thick brush and overgrown paths, past a half-collapsed footbridge and a tree marked with strange symbols—circles and slashes that didn’t look natural. After an hour and a half, we saw it.
The cabin was buried in the woods like it had been swallowed whole. The wood was dark and warped with age, roof sagging in the middle. The windows were covered with boards, most of them rotting. The door barely clung to its hinges, creaking with every gust of wind.
“This is a bad idea,” Sam whispered.
Jamie stepped forward anyway, grabbing the edge of the door. “We came this far.”
The moment the door swung open, the smell hit us—damp, moldy wood mixed with something sour, almost metallic. Inside, the air was stale and heavy. The floor was covered in junk: torn clothes, broken furniture, animal bones scattered like someone had started a collection. A dusty table sat against one wall, its surface lined with knives of all sizes, most of them rusted. And on the wall, tacked with old nails, was a photo of a young man with his face violently scratched out. Beside it was a torn newspaper clipping.
Local camper, Ethan Miller, reported missing in Whispering Woods. Search called off after one week.
“That’s him,” Taylor said, her voice cracking. “That’s Ethan.”
Then we heard it—heavy footsteps outside, slow and deliberate. We all froze, not breathing, as the door creaked again. Someone was coming in.
We barely had time to move. I grabbed the photo and clipping, shoving them into my jacket. “Hide!” I hissed.
We ducked behind a pile of old crates as the door opened fully. An old man stepped inside, hunched and wiry, with long grey hair and a tangled beard. His face was gaunt, eyes sunken but darting, twitchy. In his hands was a rifle, old but still deadly. He muttered under his breath—something about kids, trespassers, people who didn’t belong.
My heart was slamming against my ribs. He moved slowly through the room, stopping now and then to sniff the air like a wild animal. Then he turned, facing the crates.
“Now,” Jamie whispered, and before I could think, he hurled a rusted metal pan across the room. It hit the man in the shoulder with a loud clang. He stumbled, shouted something unintelligible, and raised the rifle.
We bolted. The first shot shattered the doorframe, splinters exploding around us. We ran blindly, branches slashing at our faces and arms. I didn’t look back until I heard a second shot crack through the trees. It hit a trunk just inches from Jamie.
We didn’t stop until we were back at camp. Our lungs burned, and our hands shook as we fumbled for our phones. Cell signal was weak, but we managed to get through to 911. An hour later, the sheriff’s department showed up with a couple of deputies and a dog.
We showed them the journal, the map, the picture, and the article. They went to the cabin, guns drawn. But when they came back, they said it was empty—no sign of the man, no recent tracks. They claimed the bones were animal, though none of us believed them. Too many were small. Too many looked… wrong.
They reopened Ethan’s case based on the journal and the photo. That was the last we ever heard from the police.
We left that day without speaking much. The woods didn’t feel the same anymore. The stillness was no longer peaceful—it was oppressive, haunted. I haven’t been camping since. At night, I still think about the photograph on that wall, about the way the man’s eyes darted like he knew we were there. About how he vanished into the forest like he was part of it.
Sometimes, I dream of the whispering woods, of slow footsteps crunching leaves just outside my tent, of that voice muttering nonsense in the dark. And sometimes I wonder if we should’ve never opened that journal… because some stories in the forest aren’t meant to be found.