Sometimes, when the campfire dies and the cabins fall quiet, you hear footsteps where no one should be. The creak of a bridge swaying in the dark, whispers drifting through the trees, these are the things that don’t show up on any map. At camp, some nights carry more than silence. They carry secrets you can’t outrun.

First, a face in the window

Followed by they don’t leave footprints

Finally in our last story, Three Bells, no escape