Your eyes snap open to darkness and pain. The last thing you remember is the crunch of leaves, the beam of your flashlight shaking — and then a blow to the back of your head.

Now, you’re lying on a cold wooden floor, the taste of blood and dust thick in your mouth. The air smells like mold, iron, and something sweetly rotten. A single candle flickers on a warped dresser, throwing long shadows that twitch across the cracked walls.

You sit up slowly. The room creaks like it’s alive — boards groaning beneath every breath you take.

A rusty metal door blocks your way out, bolted from the other side.

Then you hear it.

A faint, trembling humming beyond the door — a nursery tune, out of rhythm and half-forgotten.

The humming stops.

A voice slides through the crack between the door and the floor, soft but sharp enough to make your skin crawl.

“Hehe… I know you’re awake in there. You shouldn’t have been in my woods…”

Silence again — except for the soft click of something heavy dragging across the floorboards.

The light flickers once, and you realize the door handle is moving and the bolt is being removed.