David arrived in Blackwood Fork just as twilight bled into a stormy dusk. The small town was quiet, still showing signs of water damage. He checked into the Blackwood Inn, a rustic, creaking establishment that smelled heavily of woodsmoke and damp cedar. Craving a warm meal after the long drive, he headed down to the inn’s small, dimly lit tavern for a late dinner.
As he ate, he struck up a conversation with the elderly innkeeper. When David mentioned his plan to camp out near the old ravine to photograph the stranded salamanders, the tavern grew noticeably quiet.
The innkeeper leaned over the counter, his voice dropping to a low whisper. He warned David to stay away from the deep hollow after dark. For weeks, hunters had reported a “ghostly green light” pulsing from the deepest thicket—a phenomenon the village elders claimed was a bad omen. David smiled politely, completely skeptical. He chalked the rumors up to local folklore or swamp gas, completely unaware of what was actually waiting for him.