‘Go camping!’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ they said. If only someone had mentioned that I’d be stranded without internet service, lost in the middle of an unfamiliar forest.

Despite what many would recommend, I decided to try every survival trick I’d ever seen in movies. From hunting to carving ‘SOS’ into the dirt, even screaming for help at the top of my lungs—nothing seemed to work.

I was starving, my clothes were filthy, and my pride was bruised beyond repair.

In the dead of night, barefoot and desperate, I wandered aimlessly through the dense forest, hoping to stumble upon even the slightest sign of human presence. Though, perhaps, I should’ve been more specific about the kind of sign I was hoping for.

After what felt like an eternity of random walking, I finally saw a distant glow—a flicker of light in the far-off darkness. A campfire? At least, that’s what it seemed like to my fatigued and starving mind. I rushed toward it, my heart pounding with a mixture of hope and exhaustion.

But just as I was about to draw closer, I froze in my tracks. My eyes widened as I took in the sight before me—an unsettling spectacle. A group of people, their faces obscured by intricately designed masks resembling various wild animals, circled around a roaring fire. Their cloaks billowed behind them as they moved, their garments ornate and hand-stitched, flowing eerily across the forest floor. It was a celebration, of some kind, but it felt far from anything remotely sane or familiar.

I quickly ducked behind a nearby bush, my curiosity piqued, yet my instincts screamed to stay hidden. Whatever this was, it was far beyond what any reasonable person would partake in.

But then, something caught my attention—something even more strange and unnerving.

At the center of the gathering, perched upon what could only be described as a throne, sat a figure wearing a mask shaped like a deer’s head. He was the leader, or perhaps the successor, a figure of reverence and authority among the chanting group.