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The trees grow denser as we continue. Twisted trunks arch overhead, blocking much of the afternoon light. Halloween decorations begin appearing in unexpected places. Not modern ones. Old ones. Bundles of dried corn tied to branches. Weathered scarecrows leaning between trees. Hand-carved wooden faces nailed into bark, their features softened by decades of rain.
"Creepy," Sayer mutters.
I examine one of the carved faces.
"It's old."
"How old?"
"Older than the festival."
Carys steps closer.
"There are symbols carved underneath."
She brushes moss away. Protective markings. Half-erased by time. Someone knew. Long before tourists. Long before souvenir shops. The people who first settled this valley knew something lived here. And they tried to contain it.
The farther we walk, the quieter the forest becomes. Birdsong disappears. Squirrels vanish. Even the wind seems reluctant to pass through these trees.
Only Sayer keeps looking in one direction. Without hesitation. Without uncertainty.
Finally, he stops.
"It's that way."
He points toward a narrow ravine hidden beneath dense brush.
"You're sure?"
He nods.
"I don't even have to think anymore."
Carys quietly marks the direction on her paper map even though she knows the GPS coordinates are useless.
"We're close."
"I know."
His voice is almost a whisper.
"It's stronger now."
"What does stronger feel like?"
He searches for the words.
"Like..."
He presses a hand against his chest.
"...someone calling my name from another room."
I don't like that description.
"Can you ignore it?"
"So far."
