An old tale of the woods.

In the year of eleven, when autumn winds sighed,
A hunter went where the old shadows hide.
He came back alone, through the cold and the rain,
But something had followed him home all the same.

It waited at night, where the dreaming things creep,
And stood by his bed when the world fell asleep.
No prayer could dispel it, no dawn make it cease;
The hunter found neither his rest nor his peace.

Then came the day when the forest took more
Than a man could endure, than a heart could ignore.
And there, among branches that clawed at the sky,
He found what would haunt him long after she'd died.

Fifteen long years, through the bracken and snow,
He followed the paths where the lost never go.
He searched for an ending, for vengeance, for proof—
While something kept watch from the dark of the wood.

So if you hear footsteps where none should be heard,
If the trees seem to stir though there isn't a bird,
Don't follow the trail. Don't look back. Don't stay.

Some things in the forest remember your way.