My grandmother used to say: never walk past the old tree after dark. Not because of wolves. Not because of cold. Because the forest remembers what we try to forget. The first settlers wrote it down, though they did not understand it. Seven names, the old papers say. Seven, and then it wakes. We did not believe them. We built the town anyway.

Ashberry Creek, they say, is a quiet town. It is not. Seven tourists have vanished in fourteen months. The sheriff keeps files she does not share. The librarian knows more than she admits. The hunters are sharpening their knives. And something in the forest is waking up. Everyone here has a secret. Some are buried. Some are still breathing. You have one of your own.