The Impala’s engine rumbled low as it rolled into the mist-shrouded town of Pine Hollow, Oregon—a place so quiet it almost whispered its secrets. Dean Winchester tapped the steering wheel in rhythm with the classic rock humming through the speakers, eyes scanning the foggy streets.

“This place gives off serious ‘don’t go in the woods’ vibes,” he muttered.

Sam glanced down at his local newspaper. “Four people missing in two weeks. Locals say they hear screaming at night coming from the forest. Some think it’s a cougar, others say... a ghost.”

Dean snorted. “Cougar, ghost, or pissed-off wood nymph—sounds like a Winchester weekend.”

He pulled the car to a stop outside a rundown diner, its neon sign flickering like a dying firefly. The brothers stepped out into the cold, pine-scented air. Something felt off. The kind of off that made the hair on the back of Sam’s neck stand up.

Dean grabbed the trunk key. “Let’s go say hi to whatever’s screamin’ in the woods.”