The Impala's tires crunched over the frost-bitten gravel as Dean pulled into the outskirts of Hollow Creek, a forgotten little town nestled deep in the West Virginia woods. Sam sat in the passenger seat, thumbing through a newspaper article.

"Three hikers gone missing in two weeks," Sam said. "Locals say they hear whispering voices in the woods at night. Think we're dealing with a spirit?"

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Either that or some wannabe Blair Witch fan with a grudge."

They checked into a dusty roadside motel, armed with salt rounds, iron bars, and their usual charm. That night, they hiked into the woods where the last hiker was last seen. A low mist coiled around the trees, and the silence was thick-unnatural.

Suddenly, a cold breeze swept through, and both brothers stopped. Whispering filled the air -not from any direction, but from all around them. Sam turned, EMF reader in hand. "It's spiking. Big time."

Out of the mist, a figure emerged-a young woman in tattered clothes, eyes hollow, voice barely audible. "Help... me..."

Dean raised his shotgun. "Spirit?"

Sam stepped forward. "No... not angry. Lost. She doesn't know she's dead."

Dean lowered the gun. "Great. A ghost with amnesia. That's new."