Something lurks.
There is a place in the old growth where the trees bend inward, forming a circle around nothing. No animals enter. No birds sing above it. Hikers report the sound of breathing -- slow, rhythmic, rising from the earth itself.
Two hikers on the ridge noticed their shadows stretched long in the evening sun. But there were three shadows. The third moved independently, slowly drifting toward the tree line before vanishing at dusk.
Every night at exactly midnight, the forest goes completely silent. No insects, no wind, no rustling. For precisely forty-seven seconds, there is nothing. Then, from somewhere deep within, a single note -- low, resonant, and impossible to locate.