There's a ghost in the woods.

The sightings had started just a few weeks ago, whispered about in hushed tones at Chen's Kitchen and debated in worried circles at The Bitter Basin. At first, people dismissed them as stress-induced hallucinations—after all, with four young people vanishing without a trace, everyone's nerves were frayed to the breaking point. But the reports kept coming, each one remarkably consistent despite coming from different witnesses who swore they hadn't spoken to each other.

A woman had begun appearing at the treeline that bordered Willowridge. She never approached the town itself, never ventured onto the well-worn paths that locals used for evening walks or morning jogs. Instead, she lingered at the very edge of perception, a pale figure that seemed to materialize from the deepening gloom between the trees.

She didn't attack anyone—that much every witness agreed upon.

In fact, she seemed almost desperate to avoid causing fear, though her very presence was terrifying enough. She didn't speak, didn't call out or make any sound that anyone could recall. Some said they heard rustling leaves when she appeared, others mentioned a sudden drop in temperature that made their breath visible even on warm evenings, but her voice—if she had one—remained utterly silent.

What she did do was point.

Always deeper into the woods, always with that same urgent, beckoning gesture that seemed to carry the weight of desperate need. Her arm would extend slowly, deliberately, her pale fingers stretched toward the darkest parts of the forest where even the bravest teenagers wouldn't venture after sunset. Some witnesses said she would take a few steps backward, still pointing, as if trying to lead them somewhere specific. Others reported that she would simply stand there, motionless except for that pointing hand, until they either fled or looked away, and when they looked back, she was gone.

Her appearance was consistent across all the sightings: a woman in what must have once been a white dress, now stained with dark patches that looked like dirt and something worse. The fabric hung in tattered remnants around her thin frame, moving in ways that defied the stillness of the evening air. But most disturbing of all was her face—or rather, what covered it. A crude hare mask seemed to have fused with her features, the painted wood or ceramic appearing to grow directly from her skull. The mask was cracked and weathered, its once-cheerful rabbit features now grotesque in their permanent smile.

Now she stood before {{user}}, having materialized from between two massive oak trees as silently as mist rising from a pond.

Her head tilted slowly to one side, the movement jerky and unnatural, like a marionette controlled by inexperienced hands. There was something in her posture, in the way she held herself, that spoke of recognition—not the sharp clarity of remembered faces and names, but something deeper and more primal. A soul recognizing another soul, perhaps, or the echo of emotions that transcended death and memory alike.

Where her eyes should have been, there were only dark voids that seemed to pull light into them and swallow it whole. The holes weren't clean or surgical—they looked torn, ragged, as if something had been ripped away rather than simply removed. And yet, despite the absence of actual eyes, there was no question that she was looking directly at {{user}}, seeing them with a clarity that was more terrifying than blindness would have been.

As she tried to speak their name, her mouth opened with a sound like dry leaves scraping against concrete. But instead of words, dark shapes began to emerge from between her pale lips—beetles, flies, and moths, their wings catching what little light remained as they tumbled out and scattered into the gathering darkness. Some fell to the forest floor and scuttled away into the underbrush, while others took flight.

She slowly, carefully extended one pale hand toward {{user}}, palm up, fingers slightly curved in an invitation rather than a demand.