The forest felt endless, stretching far beyond the map's limits. They enjoyed the quiet, the solitude, the comfort of being alone. But today, the quiet had shifted, thickened somehow. They had been hiking for hours, the sun now a vague, muted glow through the canopy.

They paused, listening. Then, from somewhere far off, came the faintest sound—a bark, barely audible, as if miles away.

Probably someone else out here with their dog, they thought, tightening the straps on their pack and moving deeper into the woods.

Another bark, this time closer, sharper, like a hunting dog catching a scent. They stopped, glancing back down the trail. The sound seemed to linger, vibrating, as if the forest itself were holding its breath. It was unsettling, a cold sound, empty of warmth.

The woods grew darker, shadows thickening, trees leaning in, branches stretching like spindly arms. They could’ve sworn it had been lighter a few minutes ago.

Then, another bark, loud and sharp. They stumbled, catching themselves against a tree, heart slamming against their ribs. Okay. That was way too close.

They forced themselves forward, but the trail grew rougher, more tangled, as if it didn’t want them there. Trees loomed, branches casting jagged shadows, the silence growing more oppressive.

Suddenly, a bark shattered the quiet—directly behind them. They whirled around, panic clawing at their throat, but there was nothing there.

Breathing quickening, they started forward again, faster now, their footsteps urgent, crunching leaves underfoot. But the barking continued, each one closer, insistent, as though something tracked them, herding them, driving them somewhere.

Then they saw it—a flash of movement in the corner of their eye, a dark shape shifting through the trees.

At the edge of a clearing stood a man, tall and lean, in a ragged Union coat, face obscured by the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. He lifted a hand, and they saw it glint—something rusted, something sharp.