I used to think my parents' place was the epitome of ordinary.

I used to think my parents' place was the epitome of ordinary, cookie-cutter neighborhood at the

base of some foothills, complete with a neat little fence and a paved driveway. But everything shifted

once I found that obscure path just off the canyon road. It's hidden behind a thin screen of trees, and the sign is either

so faded or small that most people wouldn't notice it even if they were looking. I stumbled

across it thanks to a hunch and a friend's random tip, and on the day I decided to explore

it with a buddy from the Lost Creek expeditions, well, that was the afternoon everything changed.

We parked near the bend in the road and got out. The chill in the air smelled like wet earth

and leaf rot, which made sense because the entire slope was drenched in melting snow.

The moment we stepped onto the gravel, two sharp cracks echoed through the trunks.

My friend froze, glancing at me with a, did you do that? Expression. I shook my head.

It was definitely coming from deeper in the trees. Although the idea of random branches

snapping on their own crossed my mind, I tried to laugh it off, but it felt

forced. It was the first spark of suspicion that something, or someone, was aware we had arrived.

The trail itself was a sloppy mess, coated with slush and fresh mud. Each step made an ugly

squelching noise that shattered any semblance of silence.

The canopy overhead was so thick, most of the day's light got swallowed before it touched the ground.

It was like entering a tunnel of shadows.

We picked our way along carefully, occasionally slipping.

We only made it a few hundred feet when another pair of cracks rang out, sharper than

the ones by the car.

My friend threw me a nervous smile, and I tried to shrug like it was normal.

...