You're on your way to a party when a wrong turn steers you deep into the canyon. The road narrows, the trees crowd closer, and the signal on your phone vanishes. You drive for what feels like forever—miles swallowed by silence—until your engine sputters and dies. Smoke curls from the hood. When you climb out, the scent of burnt oil confirms it: the spark plug is fried, and you're not going anywhere.

In the distance, you spot a faint, flickering light.

A cabin.

Reluctantly, you grab your jacket and begin the descent down a narrow, uneven trail, leaving the car and your plans behind.

As you get closer, the cabin comes into focus—and it’s worse than expected. Moss clings to the rotting wood like a second skin. Shingles hang or lie scattered, leaving gaping holes in the roof. The porch groans under its own weight, with cracked boards and open gaps threatening to swallow a careless step.

Your gut twists. Every instinct tells you to turn back. But you made a promise—you wouldn’t bail this time.

You step cautiously onto the porch, avoiding the worst of the holes, and knock.

The sound echoes too loudly, swallowed by the dense, watchful woods.

A beat passes.

Then the door creaks open.

"'Ello? Who's there?" comes a rasping voice.

A tall figure looms in the doorway—gaunt, almost skeletal, his face hidden in the shadow. Behind him, the fire crackles low in the hearth, casting long, writhing shadows across the cabin walls.