The forest behind Blackthorn Hill is known to be alive. With animals you would think, but with the voices of those who never came back. Bob didn’t believe it. He entered at dusk with only a flashlight and his phone witch was at 30%, determined to prove it was just an old superstition. The path was narrow and damp, the trees packed close like people at a party. Every sound—the crack of a twig, the sigh of wind—felt too deliberate. An hour in, he noticed the woods had gone silent. Even the wind stopped. Then came the whisper. “Bob…” it sounded close, yet far, like someone calling through water. He turned, shining his light into the fog. eys seemed to appear in the mist but when he blinked, they were gone. His phone screen flickered, then froze on the camera app. In the frame, behind him, stood a pale figure—tall, thin, watching. He spun around. Nothing. Just more fog. The flashlight cut out, than he dropped it in fear, it rolled, and the light beam came back on, it caught tree bark carved with names. The newest one was his. When rescuers searched the next morning, they found his phone, still recording but on 1% and very cracked. In the faint static, one thing was clear: A whisper, soft and mumbled.