In the shadowed stillness of the northern woods, something ancient stirs—a hulking shape with black fur and a skull for a face, crowned by antlers twisted like old roots. It does not breathe. It does not blink. It moves in silence, its claws raking the damp earth, and yet its voice reaches into your mind like rot creeping through wood. It knows your name, though you never gave it.

Now it hunts you, drawn to something you don’t understand, and somewhere in the fog, it’s waiting. Watching. Listening.