Camp Hollow Pines

Once a sprawling summer retreat deep in the heart of Blackroot Forest, Camp Hollow Pines was known for its rustic cabins, massive wooden lodge, and endless trails curling through shadowy pine groves. It was the kind of place where laughter carried over the lake, where the nights were filled with ghost stories and the sweet crackle of firewood. But one night, the forest answered back.

When the moon rose red and thin, a wendigo came — silent, relentless, and hungry. In the chaos, nearly all the hundred campers were torn away, their screams swallowed by the night. Only twenty remain, huddled together in a clearing, their faces lit by the trembling glow of the only thing the creature fears: fire.

The cabins are unsafe. The woods are endless. They dare not let the flames falter, for every ember is a lifeline, every flicker a wall between them and what prowls beyond the trees. As they ration dwindling supplies, sharpen sticks into makeshift spears, and keep constant watch, the old camp motto has twisted into a grim law:

“If the fire burns, away it turns.”

Now, the forest is their cage. The fire is their heartbeat. And the dark is always watching.