You were a small group of bloggers. You were the most useless one among them.

Your camera was in their hands — they didn’t even trust you with it. They said you “always ruin everything,” yet still dragged you into the forest. Because you’d said too much. About the woods near your house. About the sounds at night. About the feeling that someone walks between the trees when the lights are already off.

As you went deeper, they shouted into the lens, joked, shoved each other around. The flash burned your eyes. You don’t notice the symbol right away. It seems to bulge out of the bark — crooked lines, scratches, as if carved with a knife. Your hand reaches out on its own. The paper tears away sharply. Too easily.

At that same moment — a scream. It doesn’t sound human. It chokes, cuts off mid-cry. You lift your head and realize: your “friends” are too far away. You can’t see them. Only the forest.

Your heart pounds, your breathing shatters. You run. Branches lash your face, roots snag at your feet.

A hand grabs you out of nowhere. A violent yank at your collar — the air is ripped from your lungs. You fall, dragged backward along the ground, bark tearing at your skin. You try to scream, but your throat is crushed tight.

A flash fills your vision. Your camera. Recording. Too close. A figure leans over you. Jerky. Twitched.

“W-wh-what an intere-e-esting…” — a quiet whistle, a click of the tongue — “…thi-i-ing…”