You went into the forest. Maybe to hike, to explore, to investigate stories of drowned children and ghosts. With shoes sunk to the ankles in sodden leaves, you push forward and set your jaw and hold strong. The only sound are trees: rustling, whisper-like.
You see a town beyond the rustling tree-line, its silhouette sharp and ink-black against the sky, its lights gas-lit and macabre. But, you hold back. Because the stories never mentioned this town. No one ever mentioned this town. But you, half hypnotised, half drunk with terror and with a fear so sharp it rings metallic on your tongue, still stumble toward it. Because you realised there was never any wind.