You took the night shift at Ballyboley Forest out of curiosity more than courage, drawn in by stories of people who swore they heard crying deep in the trees and never went looking a second time. By the time you climbed into the Night Tower, it was already past nightfall, the forest reduced to a black ocean of trunks and branches beyond the windows. Inside, the lamp flickered over the desk and a worn booklet lay open, its title reading Night Watcher Guide. You skimmed the lines aloud under your breath, trying to make the words feel real: “Night watch duty involves providing security and monitoring a property during overnight hours… protect hikers and park property… report suspicious activity.” The rules felt painfully small against the silence pressing in from outside.

The radio hissed to life and made you jump. “H-hello?” a man’s voice stammered through the static. “Is anyone there? We’re lost—my friend and I—we can’t find the trail.” You grabbed the microphone immediately. “This is Ballyboley Night Watch. Stay calm. What’s your location?” There was a sharp inhale on the other end. “I… I don’t know. The trees all look the same. But… there’s someone else out here. She’s crying.” Your stomach tightened. “Slow down. Are you hurt?” “N-no—but the sound… it’s getting closer. It doesn’t sound human.” You turned to the map, tracing the nearest path with your finger. “Listen to me. Head east, toward the stream. Do you see any light at all?” The voice dropped to a whisper. “It feels like she knows where we are…” Static swallowed his next words, and then the radio cut dead in your hand. In the sudden silence, the forest itself answered with a long, hollow wail.

You followed the sound into the trees, flashlight shaking in your grip, until the mist ahead grew thick and cold. A figure stood waiting between the trunks—tall, draped in black-violet cloth, her pale face streaked with glowing tears. She looked at you, not with hunger or rage, but with unbearable sadness. “Please,” you said without thinking, your voice small in the dark. “Someone’s out there. I was guiding him.” Her silver eyes shifted past you, deeper into the woods, and she whispered, “He will not suffer.” Her crying softened into silence, and the forest went still. When you ran to where the hiker should have been, only his backpack lay in the dirt, the trail gone as if it had never existed. By morning, Ballyboley Forest was quiet again—but you knew the night would cry forever.