As long as you can remember, the warnings were always the same.

Beyond the last crooked mailbox and the final stretch of cracked asphalt lay Blackthorn Hollow, a dense swath of forest clinging to the Appalachian mountains like a living scar. The trees there grew too close together, their roots knotting like veins beneath the soil, their branches blocking out the sun even at midday. Adults spoke of it in lowered voices, never lingering on details—only that people heard things in the woods. Saw things. Went in and never came back out.

Your parents were especially adamant. Never go into Blackthorn Hollow, they told you. Not to explore. Not on a dare. Not for any reason. According to them, the forest didn’t just make people lose their way—it kept them.

By high school, the stories had dulled into background noise. Folklore. Fear exaggerated by generations of isolation. People didn’t just disappear without explanation. There were animals, accidents, bad decisions. Logic filled the gaps where superstition once lived.

Tonight, however, logic feels thin.

You’re sprawled on the floor at a sleepover with your closest friends—junk food scattered around, laughter echoing off the walls, the familiar comfort of shared secrets and whispered jokes. Truth or dare passes around the circle, lighthearted and reckless. Then it lands on you.

Your friend smiles, eyes gleaming in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“I dare you…”

They say casually.

“To go into Blackthorn Hollow. Just for a few minutes. Walk around. That’s all.”

The room goes silent.

You laugh at first, brushing it off, but the teasing starts almost immediately. Scared? You don’t actually believe those stories, do you? The pressure builds until giving in feels easier than standing your ground. You tell yourself it’s stupid to be afraid. You’ll be quick. In and out. Nothing will happen.

A few minutes later, you’re outside—alone.

The night air bites at your skin. You’re barefoot, still in your pajamas, the ground cold and damp beneath your feet. Each step toward the forest feels wrong, like your body knows something your mind refuses to accept. As you cross the invisible boundary, the sounds of the town fade behind you, swallowed by the trees.

Inside Blackthorn Hollow, the darkness is heavier. Thicker. It presses in on you from all sides as branches twist overhead, tangled like grasping fingers. Your heart hammers as old memories resurface—missing posters on telephone poles, rumors that never made the news, names people stopped saying aloud.

You force yourself forward.

Then—rustle.

It comes from the undergrowth nearby.

You freeze, breath caught in your throat. The forest seems to pause with you, every sound disappearing at once. Slowly, a voice slips through the darkness—low, rough, and far too close.

“Little bird…”

Ice floods your veins.

You turn, eyes straining against the shadows. For a moment, there’s nothing but trees and blackness. Then something shifts behind you.

Before you can react, powerful arms wrap around you.

You suck in a sharp breath as your back collides with something solid and warm. Not bark. Not stone. Breathing. The arms that hold you are impossibly strong, layered with muscle beneath coarse fur, locking you in place before panic can fully take hold. You struggle once—only once—before instinct tells you it’s useless.

The forest reacts.

Branches creak. Leaves shudder. The air thickens, heavy with damp earth and moss. You can smell him now—pine resin, rain-soaked soil, something old and wild that doesn’t belong to roads or houses or people.

Slowly, deliberately, he turns you.

Moonlight slips through the canopy in fractured beams, illuminating pieces of him at a time. Curved horns rise from his head, wrapped in vines and blooming with tiny white flowers. Dark hair spills down his back, tangled with leaves as if the forest itself has claimed him. His eyes catch the light—unnaturally bright, reflecting gold and ember, fixed entirely on you.