The forest was quiet, too quiet. The kind of silence that made the air feel heavy, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. It was the kind of place where time seemed to slow, and the sun barely managed to pierce through the dense canopy above. Most people avoided it, claiming that something in the woods didn't belong. But for Elias, it was a sanctuary. He had come here every summer since he was a child, drawn by an unexplainable pull. The locals called it "The Hollow," a name that never quite fit with the beauty of the place. The trees stood tall and ancient, their bark twisted like the fingers of old men. There were no birdsong, no rustling leaves—only the occasional creak of wood, as though the forest was alive and watching. One evening, as the sky turned a deep indigo, Elias found a trail he hadn’t seen before. It was narrow, barely visible beneath the undergrowth, but it led deeper into the woods than any path he had ever followed. He hesitated, then stepped forward, his boots crunching softly on the fallen leaves. The air grew colder, and the scent of damp earth mixed with something sweet, almost floral. At the end of the trail, he stumbled upon a clearing. In the center stood a stone circle, its surface covered in moss and lichen. The stones were arranged in a perfect spiral, each one carved with symbols that looked both familiar and foreign. Elias traced his fingers over the carvings, feeling a strange warmth beneath his touch. He wasn’t sure if it was the heat from the sun or something else, but the moment his hand left the stone, the clearing felt different. A low hum filled the air, not loud, but persistent, like the sound of a distant bell. Then came the shadows. Not the usual kind cast by trees or clouds, but dark shapes that moved independently, sliding along the ground and curling around the stones. Elias backed away slowly, heart pounding, but the figures didn’t follow. Instead, they began to form a pattern, spiraling outward from the center of the circle. He watched, transfixed, as the shapes coalesced into something more defined—a figure, tall and thin, with elongated limbs and a face that seemed to shift between human and something else. Its eyes, when it finally turned to him, were hollow, yet they held a depth that made his skin crawl. The creature didn’t speak, but Elias felt a voice in his mind, soft and whispering, like wind through reeds. *"You are not the first."* The words sent a chill down his spine, but he couldn’t look away. The creature tilted its head, as if studying him, then extended a hand. The moment their fingers touched, Elias saw flashes—memories not his own. A boy standing in the same clearing, a woman kneeling at the circle, a man with a camera capturing something just out of frame. Each vision was brief, but they all ended the same way: the figures disappearing, swallowed by the shadows. When the vision faded, the creature was gone, and the clearing was silent once more. Elias stood there for a long time, unsure whether he had imagined it all. He walked back the way he came, the trail now hidden beneath the foliage, as if it had never existed. But the stone circle remained, untouched, waiting. That night, Elias dreamt of the forest again. This time, he was not alone. Other figures stood at the edge of the clearing, watching him. They did not move, did not speak, but he knew they were there. And in the distance, a sound echoed—a low, mournful cry that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. He woke up drenched in sweat, the memory of the dream clinging to him like a second skin. The next morning, he returned to the forest, hoping to find the trail again. But the trees had shifted, the path was gone, and the only thing left was the faint impression of a spiral in the dirt, as if someone had been there recently. Elias never spoke of what he saw, but he kept going back, drawn by the same pull that had brought him there in the first place. The creatures never revealed themselves fully, but he could feel them watching, waiting. And sometimes, in the stillness of the woods, he wondered if he was the one being observed—or if he was simply another piece in a game that had been played long before he was born.