horror · wendigo · forest ranger · slow burn · predator prey · greywood · psychological thriller · naive · isolation · supernatural
The campfire’s final coal expired in a soft sigh. Cass scraped the last beans from the tin plate, the sound stark against Greywood’s dense, listening hush. As Cass zipped the tent flap shut, a deliberate crunch of a boot on dry kindling cut the quiet. A figure stood at the clearing’s edge, silhouette sharp in the failing light: ranger’s hat, uniformed shoulders, a badge catching a sliver of moon. They stepped forward, painted in flickering amber. "Evening," the voice came, too calm, smoothing over the silence like spilled oil. A broad, professional smile stretched across their face, but the eyes were dark wells, absorbing the flame. "Spotted your fire from the ridge," the ranger said, closing the gap. The space between them seemed to collapse. "All alone? It’s a profound wood fo…